


Cats & Tats

by jemariel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A bunch of other people too - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Cats, Coffee Shop Owner Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has a Cat Allergy, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Kilts, M/M, Mentions of past drug abuse, Minor injury of a feline, Oral Sex, Pining, Social Anxiety, Tattoo Artist Dean Winchester, Veterinarian Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: Dean's tattoo studio is his baby, and now this ridiculous pastel coffee shop is going to come along and ruin his bad ass aesthetic? No way. Except it's not just any old cafe, and the owner is kind of ridiculously handsome...Castiel is in over his head, opening the Toe Bean while trying to finish veterinary school. The last thing he needs is the distraction of the gorgeous tattoo artist next door who doesn't even seem to like cats very much....But the real question is: Will Sam Winchester ever get a moment's peace??





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryptomoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptomoon/gifts).

> I wrote this for the [Fic Facers 2019 Charity Auction!](https://www.juliahouston.com/fic-facers/) All bids donated directly to [Random Acts](https://www.randomacts.org/). This prompt was given to me by the incomparable [Crypto](https://cryptomoon.tumblr.com). I'm so glad she was my bidder, you guys, not just because she's chill and awesome and gave me a great prompt, but also because she runs the Profound Bond Discord Server, where I spend an _alarming amount of my time._ If you like, you can join by clicking [here!](http://discord.profoundbond.net/) It's fun. We're nice. Promise. ^__^
> 
> Thanks as always to my chief beta reader and whinge-listener extraordinaire, [Elanor-n-evermind](https://elanor-n-evermind.tumblr.com/), and [Sharkfish](https://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com/) for having the best reactions google docs has ever seen. xD
> 
> _Enjoy!_

“It’s tacky.”

“I think it’s cute!”

“You would.”

“Come on, Deano, this street needs some color!”

“Color, yeah, but this is—pastel.”

“It’s not even open yet! Give them a chance.”

“Ugh, fine. I give them six months.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

~~

Every day in the weeks before the new cafe opens, Dean makes a face at its pretty pink and blue pastel paint job. It’s fine in a vacuum, he supposes, if you’re into the Easter palate. But it clashes horribly with the leather brown, blood red, and classic-car chrome of his pride and joy: Winchester, Ink. (Like Incorporated. But with ink. Sam had rolled his eyes at the pun when they opened a few years ago, but Dean remains convinced of his genius.) 

Every morning, Dean opens the shop at the crack of eleven (because no one wants a tattoo before breakfast). The bell tinkles over the door as he whistles his way in and surveys his little slice of heaven. 

People sometimes get the wrong impression when he tells them he’s a tattoo artist. They focus on the tattoo part and skip over the artist part. Dean started out in graphic design thinking he’d get into advertising or something else lucrative and soul-sucking. But then he’d got his first tattoo at the age of twenty, and it was all downhill from there. Taking the plunge and going whole-hog into the industry had been a huge leap of faith, but he’d never looked back.

Every inch of wall space in the shop is covered in elaborate art pieces showcasing Dean’s broad range of styles. Some of the photos are of art on skin, some are just sketches. Most of them are his, but there are several from Charlie, his best friend from art school, and a few from Jody, who does double-duty as an artist and second piercer.

Under the artwork, jewelry in various sizes, shapes, and colors sparkle in glass cases. That’s Sam’s domain. The piercing and tattooing portions of the shop are separated by screens and curtains. There’s a clean, antiseptic aroma over the smell of ink and metal, and it’s home.

By afternoon, the sidewalk outside is bustling, people hurrying by in the watery late-winter sunshine, and Dean wonders if it’s not a bad location for a coffee shop. Or whatever the thing next to them plans to be. Cupcake boutique, maybe? Whatever. It’s not like he’s been paying attention. 

Charlie is elbow-deep in coloring when Dean shows his client out the door, Saniderm wrapping in place and aftercare instructions clutched in her hands. Dean ambles over to take a peek at the sinuous waves and Kraken tentacles that are winding their way around Benny’s muscular shoulder blade. 

“Lookin’ good, Charlene,” he says.

“Thanks,” is the only reply. Dean does a double-take.

“That’s it?”

She blinks up at him, seeming to come out of a trance. “What?”

“You let him get away with calling you ‘Charlene,’” Sam calls from the other end of the shop, leaning back in the chair at the paper-buried communal desk. “That’s a clear sign of weakness.”

Dean flips him the bird, then turns back to Charlie. “For real, though, you okay?”

She sits up, turning off her tattoo gun to shake out her arm and stretch her back. Dean can almost hear it pop from where he’s standing. “I’m fine,” she says.

“Yeah, bullshit. Hey, Benny? Buddy.”

Benny’s eyes open, sluggish and glassy. He’s a regular, as much as a tattoo shop can have regulars, and the type who can almost fall asleep under the needle. “Hey, Boss,” he says, sounding halfway drugged.

Friggin’ hardcore dumbasses. “Break time. Both of you. Stretch out, get some water. Okay?” He turns back to Charlie. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee?” she murmurs, and then blinks some light back into her eyes. “Oooh! From the new place next door! I think the sign said they’re open!”

Dean gives her the obligatory eye-roll before he nods. “Sure, I’ll see what they got. Anything more specific?”

Charlie shrugs, stretching her spine over the low back of her stool. “You know what I like,” she mumbles around a yawn. “Thanks, Deano.”

“No problem.”

“Hey, see if they have cold brew!” Sam hollers.

“You got it.”

With a ring of the shop’s bell and a swish of chilly air under his kilt, Dean walks the twelve steps to the new cafe.

~~

Castiel Milton is going to wear a hole in this counter before they're even properly open. “They're late,” he says, staring hard at the glass door onto the street and drumming his fingers harder on the wood laminate. 

His one-and-only other employee flicks her ponytail over her shoulder and hefts a box onto the counter. “Don't you get yourself all in a tizzy,” says Donna. “They said five-ish.”

“It's five.” 

“Right. So. Five ish means they'll be here soon. Help me with this here grinder, will ya?”

Castiel grits his teeth on an exasperated sigh; if he alienates Donna, then he really will be up shit creek. More than he already is. His heart has been in his throat for a month, since signing the lease on this place and starting preparations. But it’s too late now. He’s committed—or should be committed. One of the two.

In any case, as he and Donna lift the heavy espresso grinder out of the box, he hears the tinkling of the wind chimes on the door. He turns his head, and nearly drops the grinder on his foot. The man in the doorway is not Garth with his delivery, but he is—

Drop dead gorgeous, is what he is.

Shit.

“We’re not open yet!” Castiel shouts, focusing on getting the grinder safely settled on the counter before turning to face the stranger wandering through the cafe. The bemused look on his face is downright adorable, especially given that “adorable” does not seem to be the look this guy is going for. From his combat boots to his thick winter flannel to—mother have mercy—his heavy black canvas kilt, this guy is every inch the badass.

And then he smiles, and suddenly he’s a teddy bear. But one of those novelty BDSM teddy bears, the kind with the little leather vest.

He jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the window, and Castiel tries to get a grip on himself. “Should probably fix your sign, then. Says open,” he says.

“Does it? Shoot,” Donna says as she scurries toward the window and flips the hand-painted woodblock sign. “That one’s on me. Sorry!”

“It’s fine,” two voices say at once, Castiel’s and the gorgeous guy. They make eye contact—and a zing runs through him, sets his pulse pounding. Cas has to look away. He doesn’t have time for this.

Just then, a white van pulls up outside. “Finally.” Castiel moves around the counter, past the gorgeous man, and toward the door.

~~

“I’m Dean, by the way—” Dean tries to call, but the guy’s gone, greeting the scrawny fellow with the windowless creeper van.

“Don’t worry bout him; he’s had ants in the pants about that delivery all day,” the lady behind the counter says. “Anything I can getcha?”

Dean casts an eye over the counters. In spite of the detritus of packing peanuts and empty cardboard boxes, there is a resemblance of a coffee shop in the making. Everything looks newly minted and shining, but the tall silver cylinder on the back counter has a thin trickle of steam issuing from its black spout. “I thought you said you weren’t open,” he says.

Donna shrugs and spreads her hands wide. “I just made a pot for me ‘n’ Cas, and I’ve got our cups right here”—she pulls out a sleeve of white paper cups with the shop’s name and logo stamped on the side—“so you can be our first customer! On the house, though, since our register’s still in the box,” she adds with a wink.

“Uh—” Dean shrugs. “Sure. Can I get a couple cups? I promised coffee for my coworkers.”

“Oh, do you work round here?” she asks as she dispenses piping hot java. 

“Yeah, that’s my tattoo shop right next door,” he says with another jerk of his thumb.

Her smile is all brightness when she turns back around with the drinks. “No kidding! Well then, I best introduce myself for real." She thrusts a hand at him. It's a firm grip. "Name's Donna. The antsy fella is Castiel; he owns the place." 

“Dean Winchester.”

“You’ll all have to come over once we’re open for real!” Donna says as she provides unopened milk and brand-new sugar for Dean to doctor the coffees.

“Yeah, we’re caffeine addicts over there, so you might have some built-in regulars,” Dean promises, backing toward the door. “Well, I should get back. It was nice meetin’ you.”

“Likewise!” Donna gives him a cheery wave and turns to hoist the next box. Probably the register. 

“I'll see you ar—” he turns— 

And very nearly dumps the coffees right down Castiel’s chest. 

“Whoa—shit, sorry,” Dean rushes to say, but Castiel just nods brusquely and hurries past, avoiding eye contact. Dean watches him go, not bothering to pretend he’s not admiring the guy’s broad shoulders and muscular arms as he hoists two—

Pet carriers. Dean does a double take.

Yep. Definitely pet carriers. Dean can see brownish and grayish fur moving around inside, and one of them gives a pitiful meowl. The scrawny delivery guy following him is carrying two more.

“Uh.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Donna asks, and suddenly Dean’s worried. “We’re not just any cafe.”

“Huh?”

“We’re a Cat Cafe!” She spreads her arms wide like she’s Vannah White presenting a fortune. Dean waits for that to make sense; it doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Cat cafe,” Castiel affirms from where he’s fussing over one of the pet carriers. Its door rattles, vaguely threatening.

“‘Come enjoy your coffee and a pastry in the company of our feline friends!’” That sounds like advertising copy, and when Dean glances back at her, he finds her reading off a bright-orange flyer.

Dean’s brain is stuck on the combination of ‘cat’ and ‘cafe.’ “Is that even sanitary? I mean, animals around food…”

Castiel’s mouth hardens into a line, bright-blue eyes sharp as flint. “I assure you, we have obtained all the requisite licenses,” he says, then returns his attention to the animal in the carrier. The mewls have only gotten more pathetic, and now the others are starting up the chorus.

“Right. I mean, yeah, of course. It’s just—sorry.” Dean’s rambling is cut off when the delivery guy comes back in with two more carriers. They’ve sprouted up around Dean like colorful plastic mushrooms, eight in total, some of them rocking gently as their captives pace inside. One curious eye peeks at him, gold and bright, then disappears.

Dean’s nose starts to itch. It might be psychosomatic, since they’re all still in carriers, but he definitely feels a sneeze coming on.

“We’re having an open house this Friday night,” Castiel says, and Dean looks up to find him closer than he was before, holding out a small stack of the orange flyers. “Even if you don’t want to come, would you mind spreading the word?”

“Oh—yeah, sure. Of course. Um.” The logistics of flyers and coffee cups proves difficult. Castiel ends up tucking the flyers under Dean’s elbow for him, which brings him into much closer proximity than Dean was prepared for, and his stomach does a funny little swoop. It’s a decent distraction from his impending sneeze, at least.

“Right.” Castiel steps back, avoiding eye contact again and narrowly missing tripping over one of the carriers. “I should—”

“Yeah. Uh. Thanks for the coffee.” Dean makes a ‘cheers’ motion with one cup and is immensely grateful that he manages to do it with the arm not carrying the flyers.

“Don’t be a stranger, now!” Donna calls from the back.

Dean makes his escape before his nose erupts, but it’s a close call.

~~

“Do you think he got lost?”

“Maybe their business is booming already,” Charlie mumbles through her fourth yawn since Dean left for coffee. 

“Or maybe there’s a cute barista,” Sam teases with a grin. 

“If that’s the case, you’ll have a hard time getting him back here,” Benny says, glancing up from his phone with a twinkle in his eye. He’s favoring the fresh ink in his shoulder, and Charlie keeps spritzing him and dabbing with a paper towel, but there’s no sign of the pain in his face. Sam shakes his head. He’ll never understand the tattoo crowd. Piercing’s cleaner, in his opinion. One poke, and you’re done.

The door chimes, Dean pushing it open with his side, his hands full of paper cups with a logo on the side. He looks a little red around the eyes as he hands one off to Charlie and brings the other to Sam, and there’s a bundle of orange flyers under his arm. Once he’s distributed the caffeine, he sets the flyers on the counter and carefully lines them up with the corner.

“Thanks,” Sam says, trying to be subtle about sizing Dean up.

“Mmhmm.”

“So, how was the shop?” Fishing for info from Dean can be treacherous, but he’s too quiet, which means something unexpected happened. Sam’s curiosity is getting the better of him.

Dean shrugs, then sniffs a bit and rubs at his nose. “Fine. Y’know. Kinda cute, actually.” He keeps his gaze down, on the black and white tile floor, flicking occasionally to the pile of orange flyers.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, sipping the coffee. “Bet he is.” So much for subtle.

“Hey, screw you,” he volleys back, finally making eye contact. “I never said anything about—”

“Ah-ha! So there is a cute barista,” Benny chimes in from the table.

“Shut up," Dean grumbles, color high in his cheeks.

Sam is cut off from further needling when Charlie jerks so hard she almost overturns her chair. She’s pointing to the logo on the side of the cup with eyes alight. “The Toe Bean?? Oh my god, Dean, are they a cat cafe?” The caffeine must have hit her system all at once, Sam thinks, because she’s gone from lethargic to vibrating.

Dean rubs at his nose, pulling at it. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess they are.”

“Oh my god!!” Charlie snatches up her jacket and turns to Benny briefly. “I’m sorry—we’ll keep going later—bye!”

“Hey, they’re not actually—” Dean tries to call after her, but the door has already slammed closed behind her. The shop is quiet in her wake.

Sam shakes his head. “Dude. Aren’t you allergic to cats?”

Dean manages to flip him the finger through an explosive sneeze.

~~

In the end, Dean lets Charlie talk him into going to the open house. It’s the supportive neighborhood business thing to do, she says, and she’s right. Besides, he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to ogle the owner again, even if it does mean stocking up on drugstore-brand Claritin. It’s just that Sam’s smirky face and tongue-in-cheek commentary hit a little too close to the mark, and that makes him scowly about the whole thing.

Now that he sees it all set up and finished, it is pretty clear that this is not your normal coffee peddler. It’s a veritable cat-tropolis. The walls are lined with cubbies and walkways, all covered in rusty-orange and navy-blue carpet that contrasts jarringly with the pastel exterior like autumn contrasts with spring. There’s a tidy buffet of cat treats in various flavors on the counter by the register, and next to the creamer and sugar stands a crate full of toys to dangle, jangle, and roll for the feline staff. The cats are not in attendance, but there’s a small binder on top of the pastry case full of pictures and ‘getting to know you’ bios.

Even with all the felinity, it’s a warm, welcoming place, with cushiony furniture, low tables, and the lighting kept soft and friendly. Where Dean’s shop is clinically clean and edgy, this place aims to feel like home.

Somebody’s home, anyway.

Dean feels a little silly for pumping himself full of unnecessary allergy pills when none of the cats are actually around, but maybe that just means they’re working. He hopes they can hold up in the face of the real deal.

And that’s when Dean realizes he’s already resigned himself to coming back here. Dammit.

The turnout is good—must have a strong social media presence. Dean sips on his Signature Beverage, a Meow-chiato—at least this place is embracing its pun potential—provided to him with a wink and a grin by Donna. It’s tasty. Meanwhile, Charlie samples their tea selection, and Sam munches on a fresh scone.

Dean doesn’t see Cas at first. He tries not to be disappointed. He tries to make his drink last as long as possible while they mingle aimlessly and tries not to watch the doors too obviously.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Sam asks out of the corner of his mouth after a solid ten minutes of loitering.

Dean’s hackles rise. “Are you gonna let this go?” he asks. “I’ve said, like, five words to the guy. You’re usually not this sophomoric.”

“If you keep using big words like that, you’ll be married by the end of next week.”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes another sip. “You just shut up.”

He’s almost out of beverage—and thus out of a reason to stay besides specifically waiting for Cas—when he spies a door opening behind the counter, and Cas comes up to stand next to Donna with a grateful smile. A few people make noises of greeting—friends and colleagues, Dean guesses. Cas gets swept up in the mix, whether he likes it or not.

Charlie gives a low whistle. “I can see why you like it here, Deano,” she says, sipping her tea.

“You like it here,” he grumbles. “You don’t even swing that way.”

Charlie shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, but I’m here for the cats. Are you gonna go talk to him?”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam asks with a grin. “How you gonna get catboy’s hands up your skirt?”

That does it. “Okay, first of all”—Dean holds up one finger in Sam’s face—“it’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt, and you damn well know that. Second”—two fingers in Sam’s face—“catboy does not mean what you think it means, and I dare you to Google it. Third”—Sam’s smirk has evolved into an open-mouthed guffaw, but Dean keeps going—“I never actually said a single word about being interested in this guy, so would you both just lay off?”

That does wipe the grin from Sam’s face, and he has the good grace to actually look chastened. “Sorry,” he says, and then—oh god, it’s worse than the smirking. He pulls out the full-force puppy-dog eyes and trains them directly on Dean. “I just wanna see you happy, y’know?”

Dean deflates. “I am happy.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Besides, he could easily be straight.”

A beat, and then: “He owns a cat cafe.”

“That doesn’t mean shit, and fuck you very much for stereotyping.”

Charlie pipes up. “There’s a rainbow sticker in the window?”

“Yeah, just like every other shop window from here to downtown. We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

“Just talk to him,” Sam implores. “Okay? If only because we’re neighbors now.”

“Fine,” Dean concedes, and tries not to acknowledge the way his stomach tries to crawl up his throat. “If I get shot down, will you shut up?”

Sam holds up a pinkie. They haven’t actually pinkie sworn since Sam was eleven, but the gesture still means something. “Promise.”

Dean sighs, squares his shoulders. He can do this. It’s one guy. One really, really, really good-looking guy who he’s going to have to interact with at least occasionally, who—not that he’s mentioned this to Sam—might already not like him very much. But he can do this.

He half expects to feel Sam and Charlie pushing him toward the counter, but he goes of his own free will. Cas is reluctantly holding court amongst the expectant, congratulatory crowd, looking a little wild around the eyes. Until they catch on Dean’s.

Dean tries half a smile and lifts his hand in a little wave.

Cas’s lips form words like “Excuse me” and “I’ll be right back” as he pushes between the shoulders. Donna takes up the reins effortlessly. Dean wonders if he can buy her some flowers or something.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Cas says when he’s in range.

Dean freezes with his prepared words— “Hi, nice turnout”—halfway to his lips. What he says instead is, “Uh. Sorry?”

“Sorry—that came out wrong. I’m glad you’re here. I mean—I don’t mean—um.”

God, this stumbling dork. Dean feels an affectionate smile pulling on his face, and he goes with it. “You wanna start over?” he asks.

Castiel gives himself a self-deprecating headshake, then closes his eyes and moves a deep breath in and out of his lungs. When he opens them again, they catch some of the pale streetlights outside, and against the warm backdrop of the cafe, they almost glow ultramarine. “Thank you for coming,” he says, sincere when it should sound boiler-plate by now. “It’s good to see you.”

That—that almost has Dean blushing. “Yeah—yeah, y’know, neighborly thing to do. Nice turnout,” he says at last, and then cringes. Could he have come up with a less interesting commentary? Something inside him wants to crawl away and die.

Cas glances around. “Yes. Donna has been drumming this place up on Facebook for so long, I was almost worried. People might have their expectations too high. She made it sound like God’s gift to both cats and coffee addicts.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Where are the cats, anyway?”

“In their room. I didn’t want to overwhelm them while they’re still acclimatizing.”

Dean nods, then fishes around for something else to continue the conversation. 

Cas finds it first. “Donna tells me you run the shop next door?”

“Yeah, me and my brother.” Dean gestures back to where Sam and Charlie are loitering by the window, looking suspiciously interested in the doodads dangling off the nearest cat cubby. “He does the piercing, I do the tattoos. Well, mostly. Charlie does tattoos too, and so does Jody—you’ll meet her eventually, I’m sure. Anyway, uh, they’re all jazzed to have you here, Charlie especially. She runs on cats and caffeine.” Having finally reached a logical end to his rambling, Dean clamps his lips closed to stop the flood.

Cas is smiling, though, a real smile, not the nervous customer service grin he’d had pasted on earlier. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “Do you have tattoos?”

There’s a flush of heat, and Dean has to remind himself that expressing curiosity is not the same as asking to see them. “If you ever meet a tattoo artist without tattoos, don’t trust ‘em.”

That gets him a laugh, low and delightful. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The conversation lulls again, and then Donna summons Cas back to the cluster of interested persons. Cas waves with one finger up, then turns back to Dean.

“Duty calls?”

Cas nods. “Duty calls. It was good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.” Dean lifts his hand in a wave, takes a meandering step or two backwards.

“Love your kilt, by the way,” Cas says as they drift apart, and it might just be Dean’s imagination, but he could swear his eyes linger below the belt. Might just be the warmth and the low lighting bringing the color to his cheeks. Maybe he can blame his own flush on that too.

“Oh, heh. Thanks.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed up by his already-loyal customers.

Dean turns to Sam and Charlie, who are now watching openly and grinning identical ear-to-ear grins.

“Awwww,” Sam mocks. Dean thwaps his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

“If that’s you not-interested, I would hate to see you interested,” Charlie says, her eyes incredulously wide.

“That goes for you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, cat cafes generally don't work like I've written them. They usually have a separate room for the cats and the cats are usually adoptable rather than permanent residents. But I wrote it this way and I like it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> ALSO!! Stardustdeancas surprised me with this [THIS ADORABLE TOE BEAN LOGO](https://stardustdeancas.tumblr.com/post/188793530025/for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy-i-need-to-be) and I got all verklempt. Go share the love!!
> 
> Thanks as always to [Elanor](https://elanor-n-evermind.tumblr.com) for the comma corralling and making me not be lazy xD

It takes a very special kind of cat to live and work in a cat cafe. Castiel hand-selected all of them from PetFinder, shelters, the Humane Society, and the occasional bit of sheer dumb luck.

Overall, he’s proud of his little colony. Tyrion can be temperamental, and Mango is certainly a character, but for the most part, they all get along well. Melody and Meringue are inseparable guardians of the windowsill, aloof unless tempted by treats. Simon is generally ready to chase whatever dangles in front of him, and LaRue will hold entire conversations with any customer who cares to listen. Little Peaches is the youngest, just barely stretched out of kittenhood, and the others are all fiercely protective of her. She could get away with murder. 

Then there’s Dixie.

When Donna knocks on the cat-room door, Castiel is crouched down to eye level with one of the cubbies in the massive cat condo. He can see Dixie’s little white mouth and paws in the shadows, her eyes like small moons.

“Our interview’s here, champ,” Donna informs him.

Castiel sighs, poking the treat closer to Dixie’s nose. “I’ll be just a minute.”

“Still can’t get her to come out?”

“She’s been out,” Cas says, pushing up on his knees and breathing through a head rush. “I’ve seen her on the feed.”

“Can’t force it, hon. She’ll come out in her own time.”

With a heavy sigh, Cas pokes his hand slowly into the hidey-hole until he feels the soft whuff and cool press of a kitty nose against his fingers. Curling them, he lets her rub against his knuckles. “I know. She’s just such a sweetheart. I wanted her to work out.”

“She will. Come on. Let’s hire some people so we can both take a day off now and then.”

A day off. As he pushes to his feet, Cas tries to remember what that felt like. It’s a distant memory. He's not even sure what he would do with himself. Study, probably, though that seems like defeating the purpose. 

The girl sitting by the windows looks nervous behind her wide grin. Her wild blonde hair is braided tightly over one ear, and there are stylish rips at the knees of her jeans—Castiel still doesn’t understand how worn-out clothing is fashionable, but that’s nothing new. She stands and holds out a hand for them to shake.

“You must be Claire,” Castiel says. Her hand is small, but strong.

“Yup, that’s me,” she says as they all sit back down.

Donna takes the lead in the interview; Castiel mostly watches and interjects when his curiosity gets the better of him. Claire is a little rough around the edges, but she’s smart and charming, and she has enough experience under her belt to be an asset. Donna clearly thinks so, too, because after they’ve been exchanging questions back and forth for not quite half an hour, she asks if Claire wants to meet the cats.

“Sure!” She’s standing up before she can even get the word out.

“Well you’ve already met the three M’s: Melody, Meringue, and Mango. They pretty much run the front room in the mornings. This here is Tyrion.” The big tabby tom flicks his tail from the highest kitty highway shelf. Claire has to stand on tiptoe to let him sniff her fingers. “The rest are all in the back, come on.”

Donna leads the way back behind the counter, through the door to the back hallway and the cat’s room. The kitchen is blocked off by necessity of licensing, and there’s a small feathery mouse thing discarded in the corner of the hall. Castiel picks it up and follows Donna and Claire through the door to the cats’ room.

“They can’t quite come and go as they please, but close,” Donna is saying when Cas catches up to them. “We don’t force ‘em, but we do try to keep a few of ‘em out in the shop all the time, or else it wouldn’t be much of a cat cafe, now would it? But, well, you know the old saying about herding cats. Now, this here is Simon,” she says, crouching down to greet the black-and-white tuxie who’s sauntered up to investigate. Claire kneels too, and soon LaRue and Peaches have joined in the welcoming committee. Castiel hangs back by the door, watching.

So he’s the first one to notice when a small, whiskery, gray-and-white face pokes out of one of the lowest openings.

He holds his breath. He hears Donna’s small gasp.

LaRue and Simon wander off to their own games, Peaches chasing LaRue’s tail all the way to the window. Dixie slowly slinks out of her hiding spot, one foot at a time.

“Hi, Dixie,” Donna says quietly. Dixie’s pale-blue eyes are fixed on Claire’s outstretched palm. Castiel waits for the moment when she spooks and dashes back to the safety of the box, but it doesn’t come. Claire just smiles down at her, whispering softly while she sniffs and rubs on her fingertips. When Claire slowly withdraws her hand, Dixie follows. She follows all the way to Claire’s knee. Before Castiel’s very eyes, she stands up on Claire’s lap so that they’re almost face to face, her small body stretched out long and her paws on Claire’s chest.

Their noses touch. He can hear a small purr, even from across the room, and he sees Claire’s shoulders shake in what might be laughter, might be tears.

Castiel’s heart swells against the cage of his ribs. It hurts. It’s so damn bittersweet, to watch them like this. It reminds him of the first time he met Suzie, and that pain is still too raw.

But he swallows the bitterness. He won’t begrudge them this little joy. 

“I think she likes you,” he says, still soft.

Claire turns, beaming. “Yeah?”

Donna nods, and risks a short stroke down Dixie’s back. Dixie sits back on her haunches but keeps her gaze glued to Claire’s face. She meows, just once, barely a sound at all.

“We’ve been trying to get her out of that hidey-hole for a week now,” Donna says, and Claire’s eyes go wide. “You must be somethin’ special.”

Castiel nods. “Can you start next week?” 

~~

There’s a new step in Dean’s routine. He’s still the first one in the shop, but now he nips into the Toe Bean first, between the rush of dedicated morning addicts and the after-lunch-nap-defiers. He goes every morning, expecting (hoping) to run into Cas, but instead, he gets Donna's cheery smile and amazing espresso. That’s not a complaint. He likes Donna, and they become quick friends. He's normally a basic-drip guy—or something so sweet and cold, it’s basically a caffeinated milkshake—but she gets him to try their "Cinnameown Americatto" (espresso, hot water, and a splash of cinnamon flavor). He'll never admit it to Sam, but he's hooked after the first sip. 

He tries, at first, not to interact with the cats much. That lasts a grand total of two days.

The first one who makes an impression on him is a spirited fluffball the color of a creamsicle called Mango. Mango takes his position of Official Toe Bean Greeter very seriously, with bright, sky-blue eyes and a trilling “Mrrow” for every customer. It’s cute. It’s downright adorable, actually.

Right up until he makes a break for the door.

“Shit!” Dean tries blocking him with a foot like he’s a soccer ball, but the little jerk just hops right over, slippery as a snake in a fur coat.

“Outta the way!” Donna shouts, and Dean hurries to flatten himself against the open door, heedless of the stiff, chilly wind outside. Quicker than he’s ever seen her move, Donna dashes out the door and corners Mango against a wall. “Come back here, you little—” Donna huffs as she wrangles the cat into her arms and carries him back to the cafe. He doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact—and Dean’s not even sure how this is possible on a feline face—he looks quite pleased with himself.

“That happen often?” Dean asks.

“Just with this one. He’s a right little troublemaker.” Donna dumps Mango on one of the chairs, and he hops down to the floor and playfully pounces at a brown-and-gray tabby called Melody. “So. What can I get for ya, Deano?”

Dean puts in his order and Charlie’s, then contemplates the pastry while the espresso grinds.

As soon as it’s quiet again, he asks, “Where’d you get all these little furballs, anyway?”

“Cas found ‘em! All over the place, shelters, you name it. He’s a big ol’ softie, so I think we wound up with more than he was bargaining for,” she says with a wink as she sticks the milk pitcher under the steaming wand.

Dean nods, but his brain is stuck on the mention of the erstwhile shop owner. Against his better judgement, he opens his mouth to ask, “Where is Cas these days, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“That boy’s got more on his plate than a Denny’s breakfast platter,” Donna says. “But he’s around. Why, your sweet tooth gettin’ the better of ya?” Her wink tells Dean that she’s got his number, and he feels a little warm under the collar.

“You got me,” he says, then licks his lips. “I’m not—uh. Y'know. I’m not barking up the wrong tree with him, am I?”

Donna laughs, a twinkle in her eye. “Nah, silly, we do cats ‘round these parts.”

Dean’s not sure whether that means yes or no.

Just as Dean’s about to collect his coffees and go, Donna asks, “Wanna see their room?”

“Who, the cats? Um, sure.” 

It’s always strange, stepping behind a counter in a place of business. Dean spares a second to eyeball the mysterious shelves and stacks of supplies, then he’s following Donna through the door to the inner sanctum of the cafe.

To the left is all of the things one should expect to find in a coffee shop—industrial-sized sink and dishwasher, sleeves of lids in boxes, paper supplies, a big metal door to a walk-in fridge, all walled off with a waist-high gate—for cat containment, Donna says. 

“We don’t keep food over on this wall,” Donna explains. “That’s part of our licensing stuff, keeping the cats and the food separate. But here.” She peeks through a narrow window in the door, then pushes it open. “Here’s where the magic happens.”

Dean follows her through into a cat haven. If the cafe proper is designed with cats in mind, this room is made by cats, for cats. There’s not an inch that isn’t covered in scratchable surfaces, except the food dishes in the corner. Toys of all stripes litter the floor, and there are boxes and bags and cardboard scratching posts scattered haphazardly around the room. An enormous cat tree stands by a large window, which faces the alleyway between their building and the next. Simon is avidly watching a couple of sparrows hopping around in the alleyway, his tail flicking back and forth. Two others are curled up napping on a large futon covered in a flowery sheet.

“Used to be a bakery in here,” Donna says, and yeah, Dean can see the bare bones of it now, when he looks. Empty counters and shelves on the walls, a blank slot where an oven once stood. There’s a second sink in here, too, which soothes some of Dean’s hygiene concerns. “We converted it. It’s good for them to have somewhere to go where they don’t gotta deal with our mitts on ‘em all the time, ya’know? There’s a live feed of them we keep an eye on just in case of any trouble.” She points to a webcam in the corner. 

Tyrion wakes up from a nap just then, stretching luxuriously and long. Dean feels a burn start in the corners of his eyes and tries not to breathe too much.

“Cas thinks we oughtta set up a Twitch stream,” Donna’s saying. “Listen, Deano. I wanted to let you know something.”

The uncustomary seriousness of her tone has Dean’s attention right away. “What’s up?”

“It’s about our Cas.” There’s a crease between her eyebrows, and she’s twisting her hands together, but she looks determined. “He’s—look, I really think someone like you’d be good for him.”

Dean’s stomach drops a little. “But?”

“But, like I said, he’s got a lot on his plate, and it’s not just bein’ a busy bee. He’s had a rough… well. A rough time of it.”

That drop in his stomach turns to concern. “Did something happen?”

“Not my place to give details,” Donna says. “I just wanted to let you know, he might be a little—”

Dean tries, he really, really tries to hold it in, because he is itching to hear anything Donna has to say about Cas. But his eyes are watering and the burn has shot right down his nose, and within seconds, he’s let out three explosive sneezes with more on the way. Through barely open eyes, he can see LaRue zooming across the room in fright at the sudden noise, his skinny little tail poofed up like a bottle brush.

Donna pulls him out of the room quick as lightning, concern all over her face. “Gosh—you weren’t kiddin’ when you said you were allergic.”

“You’re right,” Dean manages between one sneeze and the next. “I wasn’t... kitten.”

“Oh, well, son of a—” With a roll of her eyes, Donna frog-marches him toward the employee bathroom so he can blow his damn nose.

~~

“Cutting out early tonight, I see.”

Dean glances at the clock. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

Jody leans her elbows on the counter and levels a Look at Dean. The Mom Look, they call it when she can’t hear. “That last one took a lot out of you.”

“Yeah. I mean, I love the piece, but if I never see another spiral, I’ll die a happy man.”

She gives him a smile and a friendly pat on the arm. “Get some rest. You got a full docket tomorrow?”

“Nah, I got some downtime. Might be able to do some walk-ins.”

“Well, good. But still. Take it easy tonight, alright?”

Dean nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And quit it with that ma’am stuff.”

“Sure thing, li’l missy,” Dean drawls in a bad cowboy accent, complete with a salute off an imaginary hat.

She swats at his ass as he heads to the door, both of them giggling. In spite of the long day, there’s a spring in Dean’s step and a smile on his face as he passes the Toe Bean. Meringue, the fluffy white one who preferentially snoozes in a hammock by the window, watches him with golden-yellow eyes. He pauses to make a kissy face at her—and then he sees who’s behind the counter.

Cas. Head in his hands, bent over a huge tome of a textbook spread open on the pastry case.

The wind chimes are tinkling before Dean even registers that his feet have moved.

Cas’s head snaps up at the sound, and he starts to scramble his books away before he realizes it’s Dean and relaxes a little. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

A little piece of Dean’s heart drops at that—he was hoping for a more enthusiastic greeting, if he’s honest—but he still offers up a grin. “Hey, Cas. Long time, no see.”

“Oh. Yes. Has it been?”

Dean shrugs. “I guess you usually work in the evenings, then? I’m here a lot in the mornings.”

Cas finally relaxes, his elbows hitting the pages of his textbook. It looks… wordy. There’s a colorless diagram on one page, but most of it is teeny, tiny text. “Yes. I have classes during the day, so I don’t come in until the afternoon.”

“Well, then I might have to start coming in the afternoons, then.” If Dean had thought he was going to try and play it cool or be subtle, apparently his mouth never got the memo. He barrels on before Cas can respond. “What kind of classes? Looks pretty intense.”

Cas blinks, then says “Veterinary. I’m in my last year before starting clinical work.”

“Wow.” Okay, so hard to pin down and out of Dean’s league. Perfect. “Sounds exhausting.” Looks exhausting, too, judging by the pallor of Cas’s face and the bags under his eyes. “And you’re running this place now, too?”

Cas nods. “Yes, I know. People have been calling me crazy for months. They might have a point.” That cute little downward-glancing, blushing smile does not do anything to abate Dean’s hopeless crush. 

“I think it’s great,” comes tumbling out of his mouth. “I mean, I’m sure you can handle it. You’re all—on top of your shit, and everything.”

Cas snorts, an incredulous noise through the nose. “I’m glad you think that, Dean.”

Whatever Dean might have said is lost when he feels something solid and warm brush against his leg. It’s LaRue, short haired and orange with stunning green eyes. “Hi, buddy,” he says. LaRue trills a meow back at him, and Dean plucks one of the crunchy kibble treats out of the buffet—tuna flavored, apparently—and tosses it for him to chase. 

When he turns back, Cas is watching them with a soft little grin. He shakes it off too quickly. “Well. Uh. What can I get you?”

Dean considers, but it’s a little late for caffeine. He’s about to decline, say he just stopped in for a chat, when something in the pastry case catches his eye.

“Is that pie?”

~~

Sam sidles up to where Dean is busy at the autoclave, bitchface number three firmly etched into his brow. Dean puts on his best innocent expression to counter it. “What’s up, Sammy?”

“It’s been forty-five minutes.”

Yeah, he’d wondered. He glances around the shop just for good measure; Charlie is nowhere to be seen. “Maybe they’re busy.”

“Dean.”

“What? You don’t know. There could be a line.”

“There’s no line, Dean. You know what happened.”

Dean’s busy rolling his eyes when Jody pipes up from the desk behind the curtain. “I’ll go see!”

“No!” shout Sam and Dean in unison, but Jody’s already reaching for her purse.

“Relax, boys, I’ll be back before my consult.”

“That’s what you said last—” Sam tries, but the bell above the door is already chiming her departure.

Sam turns to Dean, and his expression has morphed into the dreaded bitchface number five.

“Don’t look at me!” Dean says, spreading his hands wide. “You wanna put leashes on them?”

“Well, one of us is going to have to go get them.”

As subtle as he can be, Dean glances at the clock. It’s quarter ‘til five. Cas is definitely there by now. He heaves his most weary, put-upon sigh and holds up one hand in a fist above the other palm.

Sam scoffs at his offer but holds up his own hands in a mirroring pose.

On the count of three, Dean throws scissors.

“Always with the scissors, Dean, come on,” Sam gloats, his fist clenched in a rock.

Dean makes sure he’s rolling his eyes and stomping enough to cover his goofy smile as he grabs his jacket and heads for the door.

Sure enough, he spies Charlie curled up in one of the squashy armchairs before he even enters the shop. She’s got a half-full pot of tea in front of her and both Melody and Meringue curled up around her thighs, and she’s happy as a clam, sketching on her tablet. Jody is leaning on the counter in close conversation with Donna, and Dean does a double-take at their body language. Well, if that isn’t an interesting development.

And then there’s Cas, counting cash into the drawer with a squinty frown. He looks up, though, when Dean comes in the door, and his expression smooths out into something that might turn into a smile.

Dean just barely has time to wave his hand in greeting before a fluffy orange streak zooms past his legs.

“Mango!” Cas shouts, scrambling out from behind the counter and startling Jody and Donna out of their reverie.

“It’s okay! I got him!” Dean darts after the big orange fluffball, who has made it exactly ten feet outside the door before stopping dead in his tracks. Huge blue eyes stare back at Dean, as if making sure he’s being followed. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Dean grumbles, scooping the cat up just as his claws start to scrabble on the pavement. 

Cas is at the door, staring at the cat in Dean’s arms with a look of such relief and frustration, Dean is reminded of an exasperated parent. “Thank you,” he says, eyes still on Mango. “He’s not usually out when I’m here. Is he always like that?”

Mango squirms in Dean’s grip but doesn’t seem determined to make it very far. “Yeah, he’s a little troublemaker. Sweet, though.” Dean lets Mango lick his chin a few times before dropping him to the floor.

“By the time I get here, he’s usually more of a roll-out-all-the-toilet-paper kind of mischievous,” Cas says, watching him closely. “If he weren’t so great with the customers, I would consider re-homing him for making our lives difficult.”

“Seriously? He’s that bad?”

“You have no idea,” Castiel says with a haunted expression. “You haven’t seen what he does to our vacuum cleaners.”

“You know, I almost think he wants to be caught,” Dean says as he leans his elbows on the pastry case. “Think if we just left him alone, he’d come back?”

“I’m not willing to take that risk,” Cas says, picking up the stack of money to re-count it.

“And hey, if he didn’t, problem solved, right?”

It’s as if he’d suggested dropping an infant down a well. All at once, the shop goes completely silent, and Dean is subjected to wide-eyed stares from Donna, Jody, and Charlie and a glare from Castiel that looks like he’s ready to smite Dean where he stands. “I’m kidding!” he protests quickly. “C’mon, it was a joke!”

“Not a good one, I’m afraid,” Jody says, shaking her head and clicking her tongue.

Dean definitely does not pout as he tries to pull his foot out of his mouth. “Party poopers.”

Cas isn't looking at Dean. He's finally counting his cash drawer with sharp hands and ruthless concentration. Dean stands and fidgets for a second before he makes his escape over toward the chair across from Charlie. “Hard at work, I see?”

Charlie has the decency to look guilty, but only for a second. “I am working! See?” She turns her tablet around to reveal a sketch of a bouquet of local native fern fronds. When Dean doesn’t do anything but roll his eyes, Charlie cocks her head at him. “What’s gotten into you?”

Dean just shrugs, but he’s pretty sure the way he glances back at the counter is telling enough.

“Oh, come on, I’m sure he’s not going to take a bad joke personally.”

“I dunno, he’s pretty serious about these cats. Did you know he’s studying to be a vet?” Dean reaches over to where Simon is loafed on the window bench, eyes closed. He doesn’t even open them when Dean pets his head, just lifts his chin for scritches. “I dunno, it’s probably stupid anyway.”

Charlie’s brow furrows. “Why stupid?”

Dean shrugs again. “I dunno. He’s all”—he waves his hand in Castiel’s direction, buttoned up and serious__“And I’m just”—and then gestures vaguely at himself, tattoo scattered and kilt clad.

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t sell yourself short, Dean-o.”

~~

“Dean?”

“Hm.”

“Dean.”

“Hmph.”

“Dean, wake up.”

“Whu—? Sam. M’awake, I swear.”

“I’m making you a doctor’s appointment.”

“What? Why?”

“You sneezed twenty-five times in an hour this morning, and now you’re like a zombie.”

“It’s the Benadryl, man. It’s the only thing that even kind of works.”

“Yeah, I know. But you can’t work like this, and I know you’re not going to stay away from the cafe with the cute catboy—”

“Still doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“Look, I get that you like him. I do. But we can’t have you nodding off during linework or sneezing all over everything, my needles included. You’re going to the doctor. Okay?”

“... Didn’t go near your stupid needles. Okay, yes, fine, mom.”

~~

So Dean goes to the doctor, and he comes back with a full allergy panel confirming that, yes, it is cat dander turning his eyes into watery, red messes and his nose into a leaky faucet. “I coulda told you that,” he grumbles. But he also comes away with a prescription for a magical little yellow pill for preventative use—safe for everyday (he’d asked)—and a prescription-strength nasal spray for acute attacks.

“If the preventative works, you might never have to use the spray,” Tessa tells him as she hands over the prescription sheets. “If you end up having to use the spray more often than not, come back, and we’ll try a different approach.”

Dean nods, eyeing the price tag on the pills. He’s probably crazy. He should just stop going to the cafe, but he knows he won’t do that.

Tessa looks at him sideways, pretty gray eyes drawing into a squint. “What’s up with you today?”

“Hmm?” Busted.

“You’re quiet. It’s weird. You never miss an opportunity to flirt with me, or my nurses. So what gives?” She crosses her arms and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “This really is just allergies, right? Are you actually dying and hiding it really well?”

“What? No. Come on.”

“Well, then?”

Dean pulls out a roguish grin that he knows doesn’t have his heart in it and says, “You’re my doctor, not my therapist. Maybe we could talk about it over a drink—”

“Too little too late. Spill.”

Dean sighs. This is the real price for clear sinuses, he supposes. “Okay. There’s. There’s this guy.”

“Uh-huh. Does this guy have a cat?”

“Eight of them, actually.”

Tessa’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“He runs a cat cafe, don’t worry,” Dean is quick to reassure her. “He’s not just a crazy cat dude, I promise.”

Her expression goes on a wild journey from incredulous surprise to fond amusement in three seconds flat. “Oh, Dean,” she says with a soft laugh.

“Yeah, yeah.”

~~

The day Dixie leaves is sad for everyone. She’s opened up considerably in the weeks since Claire came to work with them, but the cafe is still not the best environment for her. She only comes out when Claire is working, and the persistent noise of the burr grinder sends her dashing for safety. More than once, she’s hidden herself so well that she has inspired a store-wide search, involving the staff of both Toe Bean and Winchester, Ink. 

Claire, thankfully, is more than willing to take her in.

“I’d hate to impose,” Castiel starts to say, but Claire cuts him off.

“It’s really, really no problem, Cas, I promise,” she says, cuddling Dixie close in her arms like she’s been given a pony rather than an emotionally fragile cat.

Castiel hesitates. “It’s a big responsibility,” he says. “She’s young; she’s going to be with you for a very long time.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “You sound like my dad. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. She’s my baby, aren’t you, Dixie-Pixie?”

Dixie snuggles her head under Claire’s chin, and Castiel lets his worries melt away.

~~

A week or two after Dixie goes home with Claire, a new furry face arrives at Toe Bean.

“Is that TimTam?” Donna asks as she peers down into the cat crate.

Cas nods. Simon and Tyrion are already investigating, all wide eyes and meowls. Simon’s tail is a little poofy, and Castiel is uncomfortably aware that this is the first new cat they’ve tried to introduce since the start. He doesn’t actually know how that will go, but they’re all just going to have to get accustomed to the idea.

“I think I’ll take him to the bathroom first,” he says. “Let him get comfortable there.”

“Roger dodger!” Donna says, returning to cleaning the espresso machine.

Safely ensconced in the employee bathroom, Castiel sets the carrier down and peers through the top at their new arrival. He sees caramel-and-chocolate-marbled fur, a pair of vivid green eyes staring up at him. TimTam gives a lonely-sounding mew.

Slowly, Castiel opens the door to the carrier. “You coming out?” he asks after a moment.

The carrier rustles. The tips of two ears and a bristle of whiskers peek out.

“That’s it,” Cas murmurs. Carefully, he reaches into his pocket for a few treats—and if he ever plans to get laid again, he should probably reconsider that particular habit—and places them in a little line outside the carrier door.

TimTam approaches with caution, big tomcat muscles coiled to spring, little pink nose and white whiskers twitching.

Then the cronch, cronch of a satisfied cat chomping treats one after the other.

“Good boy,” Castiel murmurs. He risks a quick stroke to TimTam’s head and feels him push up into the pressure of his hand. Smiling, he pets his way down TimTam’s back, pausing to let him sniff his fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel spies a shadow moving around under the door. TimTam notices too, eyes and ears all at once trained on the intruder.

From the bold, questioning “Mrowl?” Cas hears through the door, he’s fairly certain that’s Mango.

TimTam’s back arches, and his tail doubles in poof in moments. His sweet, small voice sounds strange contorted into a low growl.

Outside, Mango gives a low hiss.

Well, this is less than ideal.

Careful to keep his movements slow, Castiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He has Toe Bean’s counter phone on speed dial. Donna answers, the hustle and bustle of the shop loud in the background. “Yello?”

“Hi—Donna. Can you come get Mango? He’s freaking out TimTam.”

“Sorry, boss, I got a whole gaggle of schoolkids just came in here, I’m tryin’ to keep everybody calm. Cats included." There's a shrill shriek the other side of the phone. Castiel winces. “Guess that means you won’t be rejoining the party any time soon?”

“Not until Mango goes away and TimTam calms down,” he says apologetically.

“Hold up—I got a plan. Hey, perfect timing!” The call abruptly cuts out.

Cas stares at his home screen for a few moments, listening to the low growling from both sides of the door, until he hears heavy footsteps.

“Cas?”

It’s Dean. The way Cas’s heartrate jumps at his voice almost makes him drop his phone.

“Yes—hello. Can you get rid of Mango, please?”

“Everything alright? Donna didn’t really have time to explain.”

Cas sighs, looking down at TimTam’s long face. “We have a new arrival.”

“Wait, did one of the cats have kittens? Which one? Was it Meringue? I thought they were all fixed!”

Damn. Even through the door, Dean’s smile is contagious. “No. Just another full-grown cat from the shelter.”

“Oh.” Dean sounds almost disappointed. “Well, if you ever do get kittens, let me know.”

“Why, are you looking to adopt?”

“Oh, no—no. I just. Uh. I dunno, they’re cute, so sue me.” If Castiel closes his eyes, he could picture the blush that’s probably staining Dean’s cheeks right now. Instead, he watches the shuffling of his shadow under the door. Mango is still out there too, now prowling around Dean’s feet, begging him to open the door. “So… what, you just want me to get Mango out of the way?”

“Yes, please,” Cas sighs. “Introductions may need to be handled with care.”

“Got it. You’re the expert. Come on, Mang.”

Through the door, Castiel hears the disgruntled squeak of a cat being picked up, and then Dean’s shadow fades away with a thumping of boots. "Good luck in there," he calls as he retreats. 

TimTam stands up from his defensive crouch, his little nose working wildly at the seam of the door. He paws at it in impotent curiosity.

“Sorry, little friend. Not yet.”

Big green eyes bore into Castiel’s as he meows for freedom.

~~

“Hello, Dean.”

It’s the lowness of his voice that does it. It sounds almost like a purr, except a cat’s purr doesn’t set off butterflies in Dean’s stomach. “Hiya, Cas,” he says and shifts his sketchbook in one arm. “Busy night?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows at the deserted shop—feline occupants only, besides themselves—then looks down at the prep exam spread out with his textbooks on the counter. “Depends what you mean by busy.”

Dean glances at the torrential downpour outside the window. Winter has melted into a wet, tepid spring, and even the twelve steps from his own front door to Toe Bean’s had him almost soaked. His sketchbook was only saved by its vinyl cover and being tucked under his flannel. “Yeah, I guess this isn’t exactly strolling weather,” he says. Then he looks back at Castiel and his studying; an idea forms in his mouth, bypassing his brain entirely. “Why don’t you come over to this side of the counter, huh? Come study somewhere comfy while I sketch.” He hears the words as if a different person is saying them, even as his stomach climbs up into his throat. 

“Oh.” It’s surprised, but not unhappy. That’s something.

“I mean,” Dean's mouth keeps running without his permission. “If it's just the two of us—minus the fur balls, obviously—I dunno. Doesn’t seem much point in, uh." The sentence stalls out, and Dean kind of wishes one of the cats would come rescue him. 

Cas’s eyes dart from his books to the squashy armchairs on either side of the low table by the window to Dean’s sketchbook, and very briefly, to Dean’s face before they snap back to his books. “Yes. I suppose I could do that.”

“Awesome.” Dean tries, he really tries to tamp down on his ridiculous grin. It doesn’t work very well. He turns to set down his sketchbook on the table, then comes back to help Cas with his pile of textbooks and notebooks once he's more or less got his face under control.

“Thank you,” Cas says as they settle into the armchairs. There is companionable silence as Castiel sets up his notes and study materials, and Dean fiddles with his pens and sketchbook, skims for reference photos on his phone. He’s not even sure what he was going to draw anymore. Not even sure it matters. Melody and Meringue watch them with serene, half-closed eyes from their two-toned fur puddle on the window bench. Dean wonders if they're judging the silly humans.

The silence is just starting to stretch to awkwardness when Castiel says, “I never asked what you wanted,” and starts to stand up.

“Hey—nah. It’s fine. Take a load off. Or, I mean.” Dean gestures at the books. “Put one on, I guess, but—you know what I mean. You don’t gotta make me coffee.”

Cas stares at him. “This is a coffee shop.”

Well, now Dean’s stepped in it. “I mean, sure," he says, digging in his kilt pocket for his wallet. "Yeah, you run a business, I guess I shouldn't just camp here without buying something.”

“No, that’s—” Cas sighs. “That’s not what I meant. You’re welcome here, Dean, whether or not you buy anything. I just assumed.”

“What, that I was only here for the caffeine hit?”

Cas shrugs, the little one that comes with half of a hidden smile.

“Would you call me crazy if I said I liked the company?” Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush.

As if on cue, TimTam hops up onto the table, already purring. Dean doesn’t know whether to be aggravated or endeared, but he pets a hand down the cat’s marbled back. “You’re pretty okay too, Timmy-Tam.”

The cat responds with a louder purr and an indulgent headbutt to Dean’s nose. Thank god for allergy pills.

When Dean catches Castiel grinning at them, he’s not sure which has his heart warming faster.

Eventually, TimTam curls up at Dean’s hip, and the three of them enjoy the sound of the rain and quiet conversation until well after closing time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates <s>Tuesday</s>  
<s>Every other Tuesday</s>  
<s>When I get a chapter done</s>  
With sacrifices to the moon goddess
> 
> That degenerated quickly ;o-o
> 
> Anyway here's a random chapter on a Thursday

TimTam and Mango start off on the wrong foot, and it’s all downhill from there.

When Castiel first tries introductions, it's supposed to be just Melody, Meringue, and Peaches in the cat room. They’re the most gregarious and curious, so Castiel was counting on them to help ease the transition with the others. But just as Peaches is edging closer, batting at TimTam's tail and starting to play, there's a _ flip-flap _sound of Mango nosing through the inset cat door. 

"Watch out!" Cas says with quiet urgency, holding TimTam with a firm hand on his back as Mango crouches, fluffed and alert. The two toms square off, clearly at the ready, and Mango gets in one good solid hiss, ears flattening out, before Donna manages to scoop him up and carry him out of the room.

Cas keeps a hand on TimTam until Donna comes back, her expression like someone who just dodged a house fire. “Well, that wasn’t quite ideal, was it?”

“Not exactly,” Cas says, cautiously letting go of TimTam. He’s more skittish now, but he lets Melody slink closer with a curious nose. It’s not long before they’re sorting our their pecking order, tussling and sniffing and tail-flicking under Castiel’s watchful eye.

But the damage has been done.

It’s nothing against TimTam. He’s a wonderful cat, affectionate and playful, curious and active. Castiel loves him—and so does Dean, which does not escape Castiel’s notice. Dean seems to tolerate most of the cats at best, always kind, but uncertain and occasionally wary. Castiel is sure that Dean only comes over here to fetch his wayward employees or because it’s the nearest caffeine source. Well. He _ was _ sure of that, anyway. Until he started coming by in the evenings for no other reason than, seemingly, to see Castiel.

That’s a dangerous thought, though. The way it makes Castiel’s heart swoop makes it so. It feels too much like hope, and he can’t afford to get attached right now.

Anyway. The trouble is not with TimTam. He never starts anything. The trouble is that they now have a split in their furry family. Melody, Meringue, LaRue, and Peaches all welcome TimTam with open paws. But Mango never warms up to him, and Tyrion and Simon follow his lead, hissing and growling whenever he’s near, bullying him away from food dishes, and taking the occasional swat if they aren’t separated in time.

Gone are the days of free and easy flow of felines from the front room to the back. Now they move in shifts, the staff all on lookout for flattened ears and twitching tails. It’s never yet come to injuries, but that’s mostly because of human intervention.

“Can you, like… run them on a schedule?” Dean asks one day when he finds out about the situation. “Just like any other employees.”

Cas groans. “You try getting cats to go anywhere on a schedule. Besides, it’s hard enough with the humans.” In addition to Claire, they’ve hired Kevin, Krissy, and Jo, all of whom have either school or a second job to juggle, and Castiel is still working out what hours he even needs covered. He’s grateful that the shop has been successful enough to hire so much extra staff, but it’s also causing him no end of grief.

He often wonders why he’s doing this to himself. Especially now, with his exams looming and the threat of his clinical practice after that.

Then he remembers Anna.

He remembers warm, sunlit days in their backyard, daydreaming of what they’d do when they grew up. He remembers the way her hair flew around her face, and how she’d cringe later as they brushed it, painstakingly. He remembers her dreams, modest, but as certain as mountains, unlike his own lofty aspirations that changed with the weather. (Why bother setting reasonable goals when the idea of living to attain them at all seems so unrealistic?)

And his feet come back to ground.

He can do this.

He can do it for her.

“Cas?”

It’s Dean’s voice. Kind, as warm as sunshine on Cas’s skin. He startles away from a gentle touch on his forearm.

“Woah, hey. You okay?”

“Sorry.” Cas shakes himself, draws his elbows close to his sides. “Can I get you anything?”

When the light dims in Dean’s eyes and he orders himself a coffee, Cas tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

He’s good at that.

~~

Dean’s gotten into the habit of blocking the door with his foot every time he enters the Toe Bean. Today, it proves unnecessary because Mango is busy lunging after a feather on a string, pulled by a soccer mom-type Dean doesn’t recognize.

“Sup, Dean,” Claire greets him. “The usuals?”

“Ouch,” Dean says. “Am I really that predictable? You’ve been here, what, a week?”

“Almost three months, Dean. I’ve been here two months and”—she does math in her head—"like, eighteen days."

“Wow. Time sure does fly.”

She rolls her eyes at him over a smile and turns to start grinding espresso.

Several things happen in quick succession.

The grinder suffers a critical malfunction, the exact nature of which Dean doesn’t quite catch. But there’s broken glass and beans everywhere. There’s a yelp from behind him and a scrabbling of claws; an orange streak hightails it toward the door into the back hall, quickly followed by two more bolts of fluff.

Claire is cursing—and bleeding, because of course she tried to catch the exploded bean hopper. 

Kevin scrambles out of the back, his hands sudsy and soapy. “What happened?” he asks, alarmed.

“No idea—” Claire starts, holding her bleeding hand high.

The woman behind Dean recovers from her shock. “What kind of operation are you running here?” she starts in, loud and accusatory. Dean’s hackles go up. Of all people, she’s rounded on Kevin, whose eyes go saucer-wide. Poor kid has more experience with calculus than with people; he is in no way prepared for this.

“Hey!” Dean yells as he grabs for some napkins one hand and Claire's wrist in the other, slapping the napkins down on her cut. “No one made that hopper explode. Shit happens, alright?”

The woman rounds on Dean. “Are you the manager?”

“Hell no, I don’t even work here—”

“Then you have no part in this discussion!”

Claire is gritting her teeth and takes over pressing the napkins to her palm. “I got it,” she grits out, then turns to the woman. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says.

“You’re the ones who can’t control your damn cats!” she yells. “You should have them all declawed if they’re going to be interacting with the public! I want to speak to your manager!”

“Did one of them hurt you?” Claire asks, genuinely concerned, in spite of her own injury.

“Well—no, but—”

Claire smiles her sharpest smile and starts moving inexorably toward the door. “Then you’re welcome to come back tomorrow morning and speak with Donna. Until then, due to technical difficulties, I’m afraid we’re going to have to close for a few minutes.” She opens the door with her foot and stares pointedly at the woman.

The woman looks from the open door to Claire to Kevin, still deer-in-headlights with suds on his hands, to Dean, standing back but ready to provide muscle if he has to. Then she huffs and collects herself out the door.

Claire lets the door shut behind her, then locks it with some difficulty and flips the wooden sign.

“Let me look at that hand,” Dean says.

“It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

“Palm wounds are no joke. Seriously, let me look.”

Claire pulls her hand away with a wince. “It’s fine. I’ll—”

“Guys?”

Kevin’s voice cuts across them. He’s staring at the tiny TV screen behind the counter that shows the live feed from the cat’s room.

Claire and Dean swing around to look.

Three furry blurs are circling around a fourth, orange, tabby, and black and white preparing to tackle brown-and-caramel marble.

“Shit, TimTam!” Claire gasps.

Dean’s already moving.

They tell you not to get in the middle of catfights. There’s a reason, but Dean can’t remember what it is right now. All he knows is, three against one are terrible odds. So when he reaches right into the spitting scramble of fur, he knows he’s taking a risk. Sure enough, the sting of claws and the clench of teeth bite into his skin immediately, but he manages to wrench TimTam out of the fray. Holding the squirming, squalling bundle at arm’s length, he beats it to the bathroom and tosses TimTam in before slamming the door.

Claire was hot on his heels and manages to close and lock the door to the cat room before any of the aggressors can get out. The hall between the two doors is filled with the muffled sounds of hissing, scratching, and angry yeowls. Dean and Claire stare at each other, wild around the eyes, both of them bleeding from their war wounds.

It takes a second, and then they both start laughing. 

“Well,” Dean sighs. “That was unexpected.”

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Claire says. “Then we can fight over who gets to swab who.”

~~

“Shit, Mary and Joseph,” is all Donna has to say when they finish their story. The speakerphone crackles with her sigh in the quiet shop. “Are they still separated?” 

“Yeah,” Claire says. “They sound like they've mostly calmed down, but Mango's still out for blood.” 

“Huh.” Donna sounds stumped. “Did you guys call Cas?”

“We tried, but his phone went straight to voicemail,” Kevin chimes in.

Dean pipes up, “He’s got midterms all day, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, shoot. Yeah, he probably won’t be reachable until afternoon, at least.” Donna sighs. “How did TimTam look? Was he hurt bad?”

Claire looks at Dean, who shrugs. “Uh, I dunno. There was a lot of fur flying, but, um.” He swallows. “I think I saw blood.”

“Shit.” There’s a few thumps; sounds like Donna is pacing. “Cat bites can get nasty. He’ll probably have to be away from the other cats for a few days, and that’s if he doesn’t get an infection.”

“Can you come get him?” Claire asks. “We can’t just keep him in the bathroom forever.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Donna says. “My Snookie baby doesn’t take well to other cats. Not exactly the best place for him right now. You?”

Claire grimaces. “My mom said no more after Dixie,” she says. “Even if it’s just temporary, I’d be on thin ice if I tried. Kevin?”

Kevin shakes his head. “My dorm doesn’t allow animals.”

The logical solution rolls around in Dean’s mouth, knocking against his teeth for a moment before he spits it out. “I could take him,” he says.

Two pairs of eyes round on him, and Donna’s too. Even though he can’t see her, he’s sure she’s staring. “You sure about that, bucko?” she asks. “Aren’t you allergic?”

Dean shrugs. “I got meds.”

“Well…” Her hand-wringing is so loud, Dean can hear it through the phone lines. “I don’t wanna impose…”

Dean shrugs. “Hey, I offered,” he says. “If it doesn’t work out, maybe Cas can take him in once his midterms are over.”

There’s a loud _ honk _ sound through the phone that Dean ultimately identifies as a laugh. “Oh, no. No, no no, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Puzzlement creases Dean’s brow, but he shrugs it off. “Yeah, I guess he’s kinda got his hands full. Alright.” Hands on his knees, he pushes himself to standing. “Shall we get this show on the road?”

“Wait,” Donna says. “Take me off speaker, I wanna talk to Dean real quick.”

Claire hands the phone to Dean, and he clicks through and brings it to his ear. “What’s up?”

“Don’t you have skin to poke, mister?” Donna chides. “I can’t have you messing up your business just because of our little altercation.”

Affection for Donna swells, and Dean finds himself smiling. “It was a paperwork day,” he says. “No appointments. I might have done a walk-in or two, but trust me, it’s nothing I can’t put off ‘til tomorrow. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor.”

Donna _ hmms _, skeptical, but ultimately, she nods. “Okay. Have Claire put him in the carrier. I’ll text Cas; he’ll probably want to come check on TimTam himself. Can I give him your number?”

Shit. That hadn’t crossed his mind. Dean feels his stomach rise up his throat at the prospect of Cas in his apartment, outside of public space— “Uh. Yeah, sure.”

Donna waits a moment, then says, “Okay well you’re gonna have to give it to me in the first place.”

With a laugh, Dean gives her the digits, and tries to stop acting like a teenager with a crush.

It doesn’t work very well.

~~

It's a nightmare. All-new equipment, not even six months old, failing catastrophically. An employee injured on the job. A fight ending in blood between cats he _ knew _ were problematic but did nothing about out of some stupid, altruistic hope that they'd learn to get along. How is a coffee shop supposed to function without an espresso grinder? It will take at least a few days to get a new hopper, even with rush shipping, which is going to cost a fortune. And if he can't solve this dispute between Mango and TimTam, he's going to have to rehome one of them, and he really doesn't want to do that. 

The only good thing about this debacle is Dean's number now burning a hole in his phone. And even that is a mixed blessing, given how seeing the capital “D” when he opens his text messages makes his stomach do a somersault. He didn't really need another source of adrenaline. 

His text thread with Dean is short, but he rereads it several times, telling himself he's just double-checking the address as he navigates public transit with a reusable shopping bag full of cat accoutrements. At the end of his trip, he finds himself in front of a modest apartment building not far from their shops. Hoisting the tote bag higher on his shoulder, he squints at the dimly lit name plates next to a tidy row of call buttons, scanning for D. Winchester. 

It takes Dean a long few seconds after Castiel presses the button, so long he almost pushes it again. Then his speaker-garbled voice says, "Hello?"

"Uh—" Castiel clears the cursed frog from his throat. "It's me. Uh. Castiel?" 

"Oh, great, yeah." He sounds distracted. Cas hopes he's not intruding, but he really needs to look at TimTam. "I'll buzz you in."

The door beeps and buzzes; Castiel scrambles to shift his shopping bag out of the way so he can pull the handle before the buzzing stops. (He needn't have worried. He's halfway down the hall before he hears it go silent.) There's an odor of dust and rain in the hallway, the distinctive mildew of old brick and wood buildings; the stairs creak under his feet, the noise rattling around the stairwell and jabbing into Cas's over-tired brain. Thankfully, it's just one flight up. In moments, he's rapping his knuckles next to a dull brass door number. 

No response. 

Cas checks the apartment number for the fourth time. Yes, he’s at the correct door. He stares at the aging paint job for a moment or two, then knocks again, leaning closer to the door.

There’s a voice, which might be saying ‘come in.’ With great trepidation, Castiel reaches for the knob.

It turns. As soon as the door cracks, the strains of an electric guitar pour out, and Castiel is uncomfortably certain that what he heard was not in fact a response to his knock, but the music. 

But he’s come this far, and Dean knew he was coming. Steeling himself, he pushes the door wide and enters the apartment.

“Dean?” he calls. It’s well-kept and tidy in its furnishings, but the walls are crammed with framed posters and art in many disparate styles. A drafting table with a bright white lamp claims pride of place in the living room, but there’s also a black leather sofa, glass coffee table, and a very nice TV, all over a patchwork of patterned area rugs that muffle the creaking hardwood floors. Cas can see city lights through the windows on the far side. 

Trying not to feel like an intruder, Castiel takes a few cautious steps into the room, shifting his shopping bag again. Blessedly, he hears Dean’s voice down a short side hall, through a door, so he follows it into what is probably a bedroom.

Probably. He can’t be certain, because the only thing he sees when he opens the door, the only thing he is capable of registering, is Dean’s thighs.

Rather a _ lot _ of Dean’s thighs. The backs of them, all the way up to where they disappear into black boxer briefs, all framed by one of his signature black kilts as he kneels and bends down to the floor. Belatedly, Castiel also registers Dean’s bare calves and feet, and his first glimpse of inked skin, something colorful and wavy climbing up those calves toward his knees. That’s as far as Castiel gets before his brain short circuits. 

He probably makes some kind of noise, though he can’t be certain what, because Dean suddenly turns around and pops up, tugging his kilt back in place. “Cas, hey! Sorry. I, uh—” Dean’s face is flushed, probably from peering under what Castiel now realizes is a bed. He points at it, hands flapping around in useless gestures as he says, “TimTam’s been hiding under there since I brought him home earlier. I was trying to get him out before you got up here, but, uh.” He swallows. “Yeah. He’s kinda spooked still, I guess.”

Somehow, Castiel manages to get his tongue untied. “It’s fine,” he says. “That’s common. He’s found a safe space.”

Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot, the only sound in the room the soft echo of music from the living room. Finally, he asks, “Should we try and fish him out? So you can look him over?”

Castiel shakes his head. “There’s no need to force it. We’ll get things set up and see if he comes out on his own.” He slides the shopping bag off his shoulder and holds it out. “Donna told me you would need supplies.”

“Oh. Yeah, I don’t have any—yeah, come on. Uh. You want a beer?” he asks as he edges past Castiel out the door into the rest of the apartment.

“Yes, please,” Castiel says on autopilot. He’s not sure it’s a good idea, but before he can second-guess himself further than that, he’s standing in Dean’s brightly lit and well-appointed kitchen being handed a bottle with a fancy label. The beer is a bit sour, and cold when it hits his stomach.

Dean fiddles with the bottle opener for a second before sticking it back on the fridge, then darts out into the living room to press a button on the stereo system to stop the music and let silence reign. “Alright,” he says, “show me what you got.”

Castiel’s shopping bag holds a new litter tray, a bag of litter, a bag of cat kibble, two catnip mice, a bundle of feathers on a string, a laser pointer, a fluffy bed, a bowl that says ‘good kitty’ on the side, a packet of crunchy treats, a packet of soft treats, and a few tins of wet food. “I wasn’t sure what his favorite flavor was yet, so I just brought a handful,” he says of the tins.

Dean’s eyes have gone round. “How long do you think he’ll be here?” he asks, his voice a little strangled.

Castiel freezes in the act of stacking the tins on the counter. “Is it too much?” he asks.

“No—although, I hope you didn’t spend all this money if he’s just going to be here for a few days.”

Castiel isn’t sure whether or not to admit that this was all stuff he had lying around either his apartment or the shop. “It might be more than a few days,” he says instead. “Depending on the extent of his injuries and how quickly I can come up with a solution to the situation.”

Dean leans on the counter and crosses his arms. Castiel tries not to notice the way his biceps strain the fabric of his red-and-black plaid flannel. “Any ideas?” Dean asks.

Cas just sighs, heavy and weary. He can feel a headache sparking behind his eyebrow. “Not at the moment. I might have to re-home one of them. First impressions are very important with cats, and they did not have a good one. Which would be a shame because they’re both excellent additions to the shop, and I’d like to keep them both around, if possible.”

Silence falls between them; all Castiel hears is the buzzing of the fridge. Or maybe that’s his own nerves fraying. Dean just purses his too-pink, too-full lips and hums.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says eventually. “I don’t mean to unload my problems on you.”

“It’s fine,” Dean is quick to say. “I just wish I could do more to help.”

“You are. I really, _ really _ appreciate you taking TimTam in for a while. I would, but—” he spreads his hands in helplessness. “Between the shop and my classes, he would just be alone too much.”

That gets Dean grinning again, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold. “Not a problem. I just hope my allergy meds hold.” He scoops up the litter tray and marches it off to the bathroom; Castiel tries not to watch the way his kilt swings behind his thighs, which has become a constant distraction.

It’s not long before space has been made for TimTam to exist alongside Dean. Castiel peppers him with questions along the way, such as whether or not TimTam has eaten or drunk since the incident—”He had some water but didn’t do more than sniff at the tuna I tried to give him.”—and the details of the fight. 

Setting up a litter tray and food bowls doesn’t take nearly long enough; TimTam is still hiding. They wander back to the bedroom and stand there for a few minutes, awkwardness growing until Cas bends down to peer under the bed himself.

There’s TimTam, making himself as small as possible in the very center of the under-the-bed. He looks at Cas's upside down face, and when Cas places a treat at arm’s length under the bed, his only response is a twitching nose and whiskers. He doesn't move. 

Cas stands up. “No luck,” Cas says. “We’ll give him some more time.”

“You want me to pick up the bed so we can drag him out?” Dean asks.

Cas laughs at that, then notes his completely guileless expression. Dean's being serious. The casual offer of strength does strange, hot, twisty things to Cas's gut, and he turns away. The bed looks heavy. “No,” he says. “We’ll let him come out on his own.”

Dean nods, and they wander out to the living room. Dean retrieves their beers from the kitchen, then plops down on the couch, his leg jittering and shaking like he can’t quite settle. He keeps glancing up at Cas where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking away just as quickly, not quite not smiling. Cas feels at loose ends, even though it’s his own fault that they’re out of things to do. He fiddles with the label on his beer bottle, and jumps when Dean asks, “You gonna sit down or just hover there all night?”

Castiel sits.

Silence looms. Dean’s knee bounces; the couch cushion bounces with it under Castiel’s thigh.

This was a terrible idea.

“Can I ask you something?” Castiel says, just to break the awful silence between them.

“Shoot,” Dean says, flattening a palm on his own knee as if to force it still.

“Why do you wear kilts all the time?”

Dean laughs, cheeks crinkling and teeth perfectly white. “You ever worn one?”

“No.”

“They’re stupidly comfortable.” He shrugs. “I dunno, I started wearing ‘em when I got my calf tats and just never stopped. Real pants feel weird, now.”

Castiel nods and examines the designs on his calves that he’d noticed earlier, but was waiting for some kind of permission before looking closely. They’re red-and-yellow flames, styled after old hot rods, starting at his ankles and curving up to his knees. Castiel is uncertain of the etiquette of asking about tattoos, so he’s steered clear so far, but now that Dean has mentioned it… “Do they, um. Mean anything?”

“Not really,” Dean says, lifting one foot to rest on the coffee table. “I mean, I like old cars, so I guess that’s the connection, but these I got just because I thought they looked cool. I was, like… twenty-two, maybe?”

“Were they your first?”

“Nah.” Dean drops his foot and leans forward, pulling his right arm out of his sleeve, and Castiel’s heart kicks against his ribs because this is the first time he’s seen Dean in less than two layers. In the chill of winter, he’s worn thermals and socks and boots under his kilt, flannels and a jacket at all times. This veritable cornucopia of skin encased in only one layer of cloth is shocking. “This one’s my first,” Dean is saying, and Castiel shakes his head to pull his mind out of the gutter. Dean is pointing to a red shape on his bicep. A very familiar red shape. 

"I was barely nineteen," Dean is saying, "and everyone said it was dumb to get a fandom tattoo, but it got me interested in the art form and I still love Star Wars, so I can't regret it." 

The words sound smooth and polished, like a well-rehearsed speech, which, come to think of it, it probably is. But Cas is busy focusing on a bright, giddy sensation in his stomach, because he's very familiar with that shape. 

"What?" Dean asks when Cas doesn't respond beyond a surely idiotic grin. "Something in my teeth?" 

It's too good. Cas gets to his feet and fetches his jacket. 

Dean actually looks a little worried when Cas returns to the living room. "What, you—you really don't like Star Wars?" 

Cas turns his jacket toward Dean and lifts one lapel. 

Hiding underneath is a shining red enameled pin of a Rebel insignia, a miniature match to the ink on Dean's arm. 

Dean bursts out laughing. 

"Dude!" he exclaims. "I shoulda known you were a stone cold nerd," he says through his gale-force guffaws.

Preening a little, Castiel sits back down on the sofa, accidentally-on-purpose ending up a little closer than he'd sat before. "I wouldn't have taken you for one, though. A nerd, that is," he finds himself saying. He sets aside his jacket again and picks up his beer, tepid and slick with condensation. 

"Are you kidding? Everybody loves Star Wars." 

Cas raises an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I'm not following your logic." 

"Okay, Spock." 

"Never the twain shall meet, Dean. We're discussing Star Wars." 

"You're right. We'll get into Trek next time." This statement—_ next time??— _is alarming enough without the huge, over-the-top wink Dean gives him. Cas feels his collar heat up around his throat and drops his gaze to his knees. 

He's spared from having to answer that by the sudden tap of padded feet on glass and a plaintive "mrowl?" 

"Hey, look who decided to join the party." Dean stands up from the couch and snags Cas's now-empty beer bottle. "You want another?" he asks.

"Oh no, thank you," Cas says. Even the first one was probably a bad idea. Cas's head is a little swimmier than he'd like it to be. In any case, he scoots forward on the couch to where TimTam is leaving little paw prints on the glass tabletop. 

"Hello, TimTam," Cas murmurs to the cat. He's moving slowly, though whether that's from nervousness at the new surroundings or from his injuries, Cas can't tell. He shies away from Cas’s fingers, which is unusual but not unexpected.

As gently as he can, Castiel holds him in place and checks him over from ear to tail for bites and scratches. He finds several: small punctures of teeth and slashes from claws. TimTam starts growling halfway through the process and even gives a low hiss at a particularly deep slash over his hip.

“Anything I can get you?” Dean asks, his voice startling Castiel out of his focus.

“Yes. From the bag—” he hesitates. “Actually, just bring the bag over.”

“Righto, doc,” Dean says with a little smile.

Castiel squints, trying to decide if he’s being mocked, but returns his attention to TimTam. 

When Dean comes back with the bag dangling from his fingers, Cas encounters a problem. “Hold him down for me, please,” he says.

Dean freezes. “Uh.”

“I don’t want him to bolt.”

Dean swallows. “Okay.” Then sets the tube and the stethoscope on the table and tries to place his hands more or less where Cas’s are. His palms brush Castiel’s knuckles as he slides his hands out from under, a warm, dry friction that tingles long after the contact is over.

He pulls a number of items from the bag—a travel-sized bottle of blue antibiotic liquid, gauze for cleaning, polysporin ointment, and a stethoscope. All of these, he places on the table next to his patient. The stethoscope is probably overkill, but he wants to make sure he’s breathing well.

“You sure you don’t need a scalpel?” Dean asks with a wavering grin. Castiel just levels him a look and tucks the stethoscope ends in his ears.

His breathing sounds fine, and his heart rate is only understandably elevated. Thus satisfied, Castiel drapes the stethoscope around his neck and starts the process of cleaning the wounds and spreading antibiotic ointment. A steady stream of soothing murmurations falls from Castiel’s lips, automatic, meaningless. “There, there, TimTam,” he croons as he swipes the washcloth, wet with salt water, under his fur and over the tiny punctures. Shushing noises and “don’t worry, it’s for your own good,” low humming nonsense.

As Cas finishes with the salt water and reaches for the polysporin, he happens to catch Dean’s eyes, startled to find himself the subject of scrutiny. “What?” he asks, defensive. He’s glad Dean doesn’t have the stethoscope, because certainly the up-kick of his heart would be noticeable.

Dean averts his eyes, cheeks pinking in ways that Castiel doesn’t want to think about too hard. “Nothin’,” he says. Castiel returns to his work, careful to avoid any further eye contact.

A few more tense moments of growling, flattened ears, and one low hiss when Castiel touches the scratch on his hip and TimTam nearly lunges out from under Dean’s hands, and they’re finished.

“Okay,” he says. “You can let him go.”

The moment Dean lifts his hands, TimTam is off the table and stalking away toward Dean’s bedroom again, pausing only to bathe himself back to dignity. 

Dean retreats almost as quickly, heading immediately to the kitchen to wash his hands. Castiel watches him go.

“Did I get any on you?” Castiel asks when Dean returns, drying his hands on his kilt.

“Huh? Oh. No. Just—” he carefully itches his eye with the back of his thumb knuckle. “Allergies. Think my meds are wearing off.”

A weight sinks through Castiel’s stomach. “Dean, if—if it’s too much, having him here, we can find something else—”

“Nah, man,” Dean says, even though his eyes are red-rimmed and he’s sniffing audibly. “It’s temporary, right? I’ll survive.”

Castiel nods, trying to ignore the way his stomach draws tight. He starts packing away his things back into the shopping bag. “In any case,” he says, “I’ll want to come back and check on him tomorrow.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“Cat scratches and bites can abscess very easil—” he stops, mouth catching up to his ears. “What?”

Dean’s blushing again, shrugging and uncertain in his hands. “I, I dunno. You don’t gotta rush out.”

Castiel just blinks at him, then sucks in a breath. “Studying,” he blurts out. “I—I have another test tomorrow which I have hardly studied for at all, and a paper to write by next week, and—”

“Woah,” Dean says with hands held out. “Slow down, champ. It’s okay.” Dean looks somewhere between crestfallen and amused. “I’ll walk you out.”

“That’s not necessary,” Castiel says, tugging on his coat, and only realizes afterward how brusque that sounded. “Thank you. But I—I can find my way.”

A little bit of ease has gone from Dean’s face as he opens the door into the main hall. His smile doesn’t light up his eyes in the way that so entrances Castiel, loathe as he is to admit it. “Okay,” Dean says, and he sounds... resigned. A foolish part of Castiel’s heart wants to reach out and touch him, comfort him somehow. 

He tightens his grip on the tote bag, much emptier now than it was when he arrived. “Well. Thank you. Again,” Castiel says.

Another tight smile, another downward flick of his eyes. “Anytime,” Dean says.

Half a second of waiting for something Castiel can’t name, and then he makes his escape.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Thursdays are the new day that posting happens ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thank you all for your sacrifices. The Moon goddess is pleased.

“Hey, Dean!” Charlie’s bright and cheery greeting grates on the inside of Dean’s skull. “We wondered where you were—woah.” Charlie peers closer, really taking him in. “You okay?”

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” he says, dropping his sketchbook and laptop on the closest table. Charlie regards him with a look somewhere between analysis and worry, then grabs his chin to look at his face more closely. Dean closes his eyes, but lets her.

“Hmm. I’m guessing… three hours of sleep?”

“Five, but it was all Benadryl-induced.”

She squints at him, worry turning into suspicion. “What did you do?” she says, flat like it isn’t a question at all.

There’s probably no avoiding this, so Dean just sighs. “Some of the cats got in a fight yesterday. TimTam got hurt. No one else could take him.”

“Dean! You giant softie!” She punches him in the arm, hard enough to tingle. “So, are your allergies kicking up? I thought the meds the doc gave you were working?”

Dean shakes his head and scrubs his hands over his face. He’s so tired, his face feels inside out, and his eyes won’t stay open more than halfway. “It’s not the allergies, really. I mean, maybe that’s part of it. But, this cat—he wouldn’t leave me alone. Lock him out of the room, and he cries and scratches at the door. Let him in, and he’s pawing at my head like it’s a rat in a hole.”

“Well”—Charlie stops to snicker behind her hand. 

“What?”

“You do kind of look like a rat’s nest.”

“Shut up,” Dean growls, then wanders off to the restroom to do something about his general appearance.

Charlie, with the lack of propriety born of too many years’ close association, follows. “How come Cas didn’t take him? He’s the vet, isn’t he?”

“He wasn’t there yesterday,” Dean says between his wet hands as he scrubs them over his face. He forgot to shave. Damn. “I kinda thought he’d take him home after checking him out last night, but he just brought over all this cat stuff, so I guess he’ll be with me for a while.”

Charlie doesn’t seem to have a response to that, so Dean pats his face dry and rakes damp fingers through his hair, trying to get it to all go in the same general direction. It only kind of works. Good enough. Not like he’s trying to impress anybody anymore. 

When he turns around, Charlie is still standing there, her face blank except for the elevation of her eyebrows. They are sky-high. “What?”

“He came over to your apartment?”

Dean's eyes roll toward the ceiling; this is exactly what he does not need, cannot deal with right now. Not after last night's rock-solid shut-out. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” He pushes past her. “I gotta get set up.” He prays that Charlie doesn’t have any further commentary, because the last thing he’s in the mood for is cutesy insinuation about his intentions and opportunities with Cas. It’s not like that, apparently. He'd thought, maybe, for a second, it might have been a two-way street, but it was probably just wishful thinking.

Whatever.

Charlie, wisely, stays silent, and Dean goes about his business.

~~

There’s a commotion in the apartment. Cas pushes the door open to hear cursing and clattering and the patter of zooming cat feet.

“God damn sonuva bitch, you little—Oh. Hi, Cas. Didn’t hear you buzz.”

Cas stands at the end of the hall and surveys the scene in front of him. Dean’s standing by the big drawing table, but the lamp that had been attached to the side is on the floor, its head knocked crooked. “One of your neighbors let me in. Is that TimTam’s fault?” Cas asks, pointing at the lamp.

“Yeah. I was trying to get some work done, but I guess he wanted attention because he jumped up, then when he started to slide down, he jumped off and knocked over the lamp.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, moving closer. “Is it broken? If so, I’ll pay to have it fixed or replaced.”

Dean waves a hand, bending down to pick up the lamp. “Should be fine. Unless—yeah, bulb’s not broken.” He twists and manipulates the lamp’s joints, a shoulder and elbow and wrist of articulation with the actual lamp at the hand. Castiel watches him for a moment, then finds himself drawn to the art in progress on the sloped drafting table. It feels somehow intimate, like he shouldn’t be looking, but the swoops and swirls are mesmerizing.

“There,” Dean says as he finishes re-attaching the lamp. “No harm done.”

“I’m glad,” Cas says, then points at the table. “You drew this?”

Dean just shrugs. “Yeah. It’s not done yet. I’m right at that point where I hate everything about it, but it’s coming along, I guess.”

“I can’t believe that,” Cas says, his eyes floating over the misty swirls of blue ink surrounding flower petals and a crystalline center. “It’s beautiful.”

Dean ducks his chin. “Thanks. I just hope the client likes it. She had all these grand ideas, and it’s all supposed to be very deep and meaningful or whatever. I’m not really sure how it’s going to translate.”

Castiel cocks his head. “Where’s it going to be?” he asks.

“Shoulder. Coming down the arm. So I’m going to have to shrink it down, which is even worse.” He scrubs a hand over his forehead and eyes, then shakes his head. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear me gripe. TimTam’s probably hiding under my bed again. He seems to think it’s his bed.”

Cas nods. “They do that,” he says, and Dean laughs a little.

The conversation lulls. Castiel can’t stop looking at the drawing. It pulls him in, rich in its color and enticing with its geometry, a mix of organized and organic. “I don’t know what your client had in mind, of course,” he says, “but I would be proud to wear something of this quality.”

In the quiet of the room, it’s all too easy to hear the catch of Dean’s breath. “You ever think of getting a tattoo, Cas?”

“Oh,” Cas pulls up short. “No. I mean. Doesn’t it hurt?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, yeah. But it’s not as excruciating as people make it out to be. Besides, pain’s temporary. The art is there forever.”

Cas hums, thoughtful. “I don’t know what I would get,” he says. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t quite feel like sharing just yet.

Dean shrugs. “Hey, I’m not trying to say you have to. Just sayin’ I’ve never regretted it.”

“Not even your Rebel Alliance?”

Dean points a finger at him. “Especially not the Rebel Alliance,” he says, and then they’re laughing again, and Dean’s rolling up his left sleeve. Castiel’s eyes land on an elaborate crest on the inside of his forearm, a crossed loop of gunmetal and chrome twining around a stylized W, with the letters J, M, and S nestled in the grooves. “This was my third tat,” he says. “When I really started getting serious. It’s my family crest—well, not like an official crest, I designed it, but—” he points to the letters. “That’s my parents, John and Mary, and down here’s Sam.” He goes on to explain all the symbols embedded in the artwork, astrological symbols and special dates woven together in an intricate lattice, and Castiel tries to listen, because this is clearly important to Dean, but his ears fuzz out with the rush of feeling, because this hits just a little too close to home.

There’s no way he could know.

“It’s lovely,” he chokes out eventually. “I’m glad you’re so close to your family.”

“Was,” Dean says, rolling his sleeve back down. “I mean, Sam ’n’ I are still close, obviously. But our folks—they passed.”

Castiel’s grief turns itself inside out. “I’m so sorry, Dean,” he says.

But Dean just shrugs. “It was a long time ago,” he says, in a tone of voice that means it wasn’t. Or at least it doesn’t feel like it.

Cas almost reaches out. He wants to clasp Dean's fingers where he's re-buttoning his cuff, or rest his hand on Dean’s arm where he knows the ink rests under skin and cloth. Wants to soothe the pain that Dean clearly still carries, in spite of what he said about pain being temporary. Castiel of all people knows how false that is.

He could tell him. Dean would understand. Might even be able to help.

But then Dean’s breathing in deep like a diver coming up from the ocean depths, and he cracks a smile. “Well, uh. Let’s go find that cat,” he says, then wanders back to the back room to fish TimTam out from under the bed.

~~

Dean feels like an idiot. How awkward can he be? First he totally fails to take a compliment, then he drops ‘by the way, my folks are dead’ into idle conversation. Cas doesn’t need to know that kind of shit. He’s just here to look at a cat.

They don’t have to play the whole game again with the stethoscope and the antibacterial wipe-down. Dean doesn’t even need to hold TimTam down while Cas looks him over; he cleverly disguises it as petting, and soon TimTam is loafed in Cas's lap, purring up a storm and staring at Dean with the kind of condescension that only cats are capable of. Dean just stands there and tries not to feel awkward.

“Hey, I meant to ask, how are your midterms going?” Dean asks to fill the silence.

He immediately regrets it when Castiel’s shoulders somehow tense up and collapse at the same time. “Don’t remind me.”

“That bad, eh?”

Cas shakes his head, still focused on the cat in his lap, peering under his fur at the largest scab over his hip. “I won’t know until they’re over how they’ve gone. All I can do right now is stress about them and try to pack as much information into my brain as possible.”

“How many more do you have?”

“One on Monday, a case study report due on Wednesday. And a practical exam on Thursday, which could take up to six hours.”

“Yikes.” It sounds a lot more grueling than Dean’s graphic design bachelor’s, which was bad enough.

TimTam has finally had enough of the poking and prodding, apparently, hopping off Cas’s knees and giving a demure shake before wandering off to parts unknown. Cas claps his hands down on his thighs and starts to stand. “Speaking of which, I should probably get back to—oh.” That’s as far as he gets before his eyes go unfocused, blurry, and he ragdolls back down on the couch.

Dean’s at his side in an instant, hand on his shoulder. “Dude, you okay?” he asks.

Cas’s hands fly to his own forehead. “I. Um.” He looks—embarrassed? “It’s possible I haven’t eaten enough today.”

That doesn’t sound good. “What _ have _you eaten?” he asks.

Castiel is worryingly silent for a moment, then with a guilty expression, “Does coffee count?”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, then stomps to the kitchen. “Don’t move,” he says, in a tone that does not allow for argument. There’s a casserole dish in the fridge, and very few ailments that Mary Winchester’s macaroni and cheese won’t fix.

As soon as the plate is in the microwave, he grabs a cider out of the fridge and pops it open. Cas is still on the couch, looking rightly contrite. “Here,” he says, handing him the bottle. “Start with some sugar.”

“Dean, I don’t think alcohol is a good—”

“Relax, it’s soft cider.” Sam likes to have something around he can drink and still feel like part of the party, but Cas doesn’t need to know that. One overshare is more than enough for the evening.

“You don’t have to do this,” Cas says, but he takes a drink of the sweet, fizzy beverage.

“Yeah, but you’re not leaving here if you’re just gonna faint on the way to the bus stop.”

Cas laughs, picking at the label. “Thanks.”

The microwave dings.

Dean tears his eyes off Cas’s fingers long enough to grab the steaming plate and a fork. “You want any hot sauce or anything?”

“I don’t even know what it is you’re giving me,” Castiel says.

“You’re right. You want hot sauce.” He brings over a bottle of Tobasco and sets the lot on the coffee table. Cas’s eyes go round and his nostrils flare as the scent of hot cheese and carbs hit his brain. “Careful, the plate’s hot.”

Dean’s not quite enough of a creeper to just sit there and watch Cas eat, so as soon as he picks up the plate with ginger fingers, he turns back to his drafting table and examines the piece he’d been working on. It looks better now that he’s been away from it for a few minutes, but there’s still something off. Too dark, maybe, or the balance is wrong. He frowns at it until he hears Cas give a practically pornographic moan behind him, and then he can’t think about anything else.

“Oh my God,” Cas says, mouth distinctly full of food. “Where did this come from?” he asks.

“Mom’s recipe,” Dean says. His ears feel hot and it’s starting to spread to his cheeks, goddammit.

“You made this?”

“Damn straight, I did.”

Cas doesn’t say anything else, too busy inhaling huge bites of comfort food goodness.

When he’s finished, which only takes a few minutes, Dean sits back down on the other end of the couch. 

Cas scoops up a little smear of cheese and crumbs off the plate and sucks it off his finger with lascivious gusto, then washes it down with several swallows of cider. It goes by too quickly for Dean to really appreciate it, but he knows that the mental image of his lips and his throat will be burned into his eyelids for a long time.

“Thank you,” Cas finally says. “I think I needed that.”

“There’s more if you want.”

Cas shakes his head. “Tempting. But I have a feeling that’s all going to hit me at once in a few minutes, and I still have to be awake long enough to get home.”

“Do you want a ride?” The words are out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop them.

Castiel blinks, sits up a little straighter, considers for a moment. “... If you wouldn’t mind,” he finally says. “I really should get back to studying.”

Dean’s grin cracks his face. “Wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” he says, and stands up to grab his jacket.

~~

The drive from Dean’s apartment to Castiel’s grubby apartment doesn’t take half the time the bus commute would take. Not for the first time, Castiel wonders if he should invest in a car. 

“This you?” Dean asks over the low guitar and smooth vocals that have filled the rainy silence since he slid onto the old leather.

“It is.” Castiel gathers his backpack and loops his scarf around his neck. “Thank you again, Dean,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Cas is about to open the door when Dean’s voice and a hand on his elbow stops him. “Oh hey, listen—tomorrow.” When Cas looks back, Dean looks worried, almost. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Me and the gang from Ink have been doing a weekly Star Wars night, trying to get through the whole series. You’re welcome to join us, or—I mean, if you still wanna come over to check on TimTam, just be warned that there’s going to be people there.”

Castiel sits back in the seat, considering. “Sorry,” Dean says, “I shoulda told you that earlier.” 

“It’s fine.” Cas fiddles with his cuff, then says, “Which movie?”

Dean’s grin is like a match flaring in the darkened street. “_ Empire Strikes Back. _”

“The best one,” he says.

“Yep. Your timing’s great.”

Cas squints. “You’re trying to tempt me away from my studies. There are cats and dogs in need, Winchester.”

Thankfully, Dean takes his jest for what it is and just grins wider. “Come one,” he wheedles. “One night off the books ain’t gonna kill you. Probably do you some good, actually.”

He’s right about that. And it _ is _Friday. He’ll have all weekend to stress and panic about his tests and papers, and there is something about Dean’s presence that calms him. Centers him. He doesn’t want to think about it too closely, but he is going to take advantage of it while he can. “Okay,” he says at last. “I’ll be there.”

Dean all but does a little fist pump of triumph. “Excellent.” His smile could light up the whole street, but it seems to be settling for Castiel’s heart, which is beating far faster than he’d like. “See you then.” He sounds so hopeful.

“See you then,” Cas says, and is surprised to find an answering smile on his own face as he finally steps out onto the sidewalk.

~~

In spite of his midterms stress, in spite of the troubles at the shop—they still don’t have a new espresso hopper—there is a spring in Castiel’s step when he unlocks the Toe Bean’s door early the next morning. He’s not usually here in the mornings, but he thinks he might have to change that. Going through the morning routine, letting the cats out of their spacious kennels, feeding, changing litter, accepting the deliveries of pastries from their baker—it’s soothing. Somehow more so than the reverse rituals of closing.

The fact that he knows Dean tends to come by in midmorning has nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing.

It’s just him and Krissy today, and a steady stream of customers who dangle feathers for the felines while waiting for their caffeine hit. A handwritten sign warns them that they’re using drip coffee grounds for their espresso right now because of technical difficulties, and more than one person remarks that they probably wouldn’t have known the difference if they hadn’t said anything. Business is doing well, the cats are thriving—though Cas is trying not to think about what’s going to happen when he tries to bring TimTam back—and Krissy chatters happily about her studies and her social activism while Castiel lets it all wash over him.

He’s doing something good, here. He can feel it.

Everything’s falling into place.

And with that thought, something shifts in his chest, that sensation that the other shoe will drop.

The higher the flight, the faster the fall, a little voice in the back of his brain whispers. And it’s only worse when you hit the ground.

His mood takes a hairpin turn after that, spiraling into anxiety and, in his more rational moments, anger. At himself, mostly. He tries not to let it show, but Krissy stops her enthusiastic chatter after his third monosyllabic grunt.

Why can’t he just be happy for himself?

Just once?

~~

Dean can’t move.

He can’t move, even though the credits are rolling on _ The Empire Strikes Back _and his assembled guests are starting to pull themselves out of the couch or off the floor and gather up their belongings.

All but one, anyway.

And that’s why Dean can’t move.

“Should we wake him up?” Jody asks in a hushed voice, even though Cas managed to doze off during a lightsaber duel. 

“Nah,” Dean murmurs, just as quiet. “I’ll get up in a sec.”

Jody’s eyebrow climbs, but she and Sam and Charlie filter their way out with whispered goodbyes and mischievous grins. Sam sends him big, dorky thumbs ups, and Dean flips him the bird above Cas’s shoulder.

It hadn’t even been a calculated move on his part, stretching his arm out on the back of the couch like this. He’d just been trying to make space; the couch was pretty cramped with him and Cas and Sam and Jody all squeezed in. (Charlie claimed to prefer the floor. More power to her.) But he’d almost instantly realized his miscalculation when he wound up with Cas’s warmth right up against his side, pressed together from knee to armpit.

But whatever. He could have dealt with that. Even if he did have to do it while watching Han Solo and Lando Calrissian make eyes at each other. Thank god for the forgiving nature of kilts.

What he couldn’t deal with was catching Cas’s chin nodding in the second half of the movie, or the way he slowly tilted over to drop his head against Dean’s collarbone. Dean’s heart may well have stopped at that moment. He still doesn’t know if it’s started up again. Worse still was when he’d given this content little grunt and fucking _ snuggled _ in closer, like he was settling down for the night.

In fact, it’s tempting as hell to just stay right here. Pretend he fell asleep too, wake up whenever Cas does. But he’s already getting a crick in his neck from very deliberately _ not moving, _and the DVD menu on replay is going to get old real quick, and Cas is kind of a furnace, and—well, now that everyone else is gone, he feels kinda like a creeper, just sitting here cuddling the guy he has a crush on who doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

“Cas,” he mutters, way too close to the guy’s hair for his own comfort. He taps Cas’s opposite shoulder gently with his outstretched hand. “Hey, buddy.”

Cas just snores, soft and huffy.

Dean’s heart is gonna explode.

Maybe he can just try and get up. That’ll work, right? Surely he’ll wake up if Dean just slides out from under him.

He shifts forward, butt first over the couch cushion, supporting Cas’s head and neck for as long as he can as he slides out of his grip. Miraculously, Cas does not wake up. Just flops down against the cushy leather arm of Dean’s sofa and—stays there. Within seconds, he’s snoring again.

Huh.

Well, this is awkward.

Feeling fidgety and suddenly cold, Dean goes around the apartment tidying up bottles, putting away leftover pizza, shutting off the DVD player. He locks the door for the night, then remembers Cas should probably still leave at some point and feels foolish, but would somehow feel more foolish unlocking it again. He turns off a few unnecessary lights and is about to go brush his teeth when he spies TimTam venturing down the hall on silent feet.

“Mrow?” he trills up at Dean.

Dean puts shushing finger to his lips. TimTam just mrowls again, which… yeah, Dean doesn’t know what he was expecting. For the cat to understand a shush?

Then TimTam is padding over toward the couch, hopping up to investigate the sleeping lump of dude that is Castiel Novak. Dean can only watch as TimTam sniffs at him, little whiskers working, then curls up on the cushion right in front of his chest. And Cas—Cas just makes this contented little hum, wraps one arm around TimTam, and keeps on snoring.

Dean’s not sure how much more cute he can handle. He’s got one hand over his mouth trying to stop his goofy grin, and it’s not helping in the slightest. 

Especially not when TimTam gives him a _ look _, this patently feline look of patrician disdain that dares Dean to even try moving either of them. And then starts purring. He purrs so hard, Dean can hear it clearly from across the room.

“Alright,” Dean whispers. “You win.”

It takes half a second to scribble a note on the shopping-list pad he keeps on his fridge and to leave it on the coffee table near Cas’s head. It takes slightly longer to find a spare blanket and drape it gently over Cas’s shoulders, making sure his socked feet are covered, too.

As Dean’s fussing over the blanket, Cas’s eyes crack open just enough to see a sliver of iris, and he sucks in a yawn. Dean freezes. Stock-still, braced for the impact of embarrassment.

But if Cas sees him, it must not register fully. He smiles faintly, vaguely, but in a way that makes Dean’s heart ache all over again, before burying his nose between the arm of the couch and TimTam’s fuzzy ears.

Dean lets out a breath.

He forces himself to step away without smoothing down the bird’s nest of Cas’s hair or pressing his lips to the sleep-wrinkles on his brow. He settles for a last awkward pat to Cas’s shoulder, which still doesn’t wake him up.

“G’night, Cas,” he murmurs as he shuts off the last living-room light.

The only response is a sleepy hum and TimTam’s satisfied purr.

~~

When Castiel does wake up, it’s with a shock of adrenaline. He’s trapped, he’s falling, there’s a sharp thump, a flash of pain. It bears too much resemblance to whatever dream he’d been having, the kind of amorphous, unsettling nightmare where the details evaporate quickly, but leave an uneasy salt on his tongue.

The world is wrong. Wrong light, wrong sounds, and he’s still wearing jeans, pinned between a wall and a collection of sharp shapes, his body mummified in strange blankets. 

Panic snaps quick inside him. He flails against the constriction of fleece, doing no good, only tangling himself further and almost beaning his head on a table leg before— 

“Cas?”

Finally, a familiar sound. Something grounding.

Dean.

Last night’s events start to piece themselves together in his brain, and he forces himself to relax into the tangle of blanket around his limbs. With a bit of more controlled wriggling, he manages to get a view of Dean’s living room from an unfamiliar angle: the floor. By the couch, which he has apparently just fallen off of, wedged nearly under the coffee table.

“It’s morning,” he says, throat rough.

“Yeah, uh—you crashed out pretty hard last night, man. Figured you could use the sleep.”

Panic ebbs to make way for a flood of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” he says. He still can’t quite be bothered to move.

“Don’t be sorry, man.” He feels the vibrations of Dean’s footsteps through the floor as he crosses closer to where Cas lies, then hears him sit gingerly at the end of the couch. His toes nudge at Castiel’s ankles. “I’m really glad you came out.”

“Funny choice of words,” Cas grumbles. “What time is it?”

“Little after eight.”

For a split second the panic is back. He has class—but no. No, he doesn’t. “It’s Saturday.”

“You are just a regular Einstein in the mornings, huh?”

That gets Cas’s head far enough out of the blankets to glare, which is progress, of a kind. Dean’s grinning, and it’s brighter than the sunshine through the window. “I haven’t had coffee,” Cas growls.

“I can make some,” Dean offers, and he’s standing before Cas can reply. It occurs to Castiel that this is the first time he’s seen Dean in something besides a kilt. Much as he misses the sway of the canvas, these threadbare cotton pajama pants are a nice alternative. They look so very soft, especially where they hug the curves of his— 

Stop that.

Castiel finally wriggles out of the blankets, enduring the ensuing headrush and the crick in his spine as he gets to his feet. “I’m getting too old to be sleeping on couches,” he groans.

“Hey, we don’t say the O word around here,” Dean’s voice floats from the kitchen. “You want leftover pizza? Or should I make something?”

“Uh.” Cas is hardly going to tell him that he usually doesn’t eat anything until at least lunchtime, and sometimes not until he gets to the cafe in late afternoon. “Just coffee. I don’t want to impose.”

Dean ducks around the kitchen doorway to give him an appraising look, squinty chips of bright jade green. Cas just fiddles with the blanket, folding it inexpertly.

“I’m making you toast,” Dean says.

“Fine.”

“Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

They stare for another second, and it really is like looking into the sun, all warm intensity that he can’t quite look away from, blooming within him— 

Then his stomach growls, and the moment shatters into Dean’s laughter.

“I guess I am hungry,” he says.

“I coulda told you that,” Dean says as he ducks back into the kitchen. Cas lets himself smile.

Silence follows, filled by a comfortably domestic kitchen clattering, the click of the toaster oven, the burble of the coffee pot, all underlaid by Dean humming something in a low baritone. Castiel does whatever rudimentary approximation of his morning routine he can manage: a swig of mouthwash and a painfully inadequate finger-brushing for his teeth, damp hands swept through his hopeless hair, reminding himself yet again that he needs a haircut. He considers a shower, but that seems like far too much presumption, and besides, he only has yesterday’s clothes to change into.

Then he spies Dean’s deodorant.

He shouldn’t. Does he dare?

He gives himself a bit of a sniff and decides he’d better.

As soon as the cap comes off, Cas is overwhelmed by a sense memory he hadn’t even known he’d formed. When had he gotten close enough to Dean to have this clear an association? The woodsy, spicy scent should, by all rights, be completely generic, just like any one of hundreds of men’s deodorants. And yet, the way it weakens his knees—

But he doesn’t dare linger. He just swipes it on in two quick rubs under his shirt. Bad enough that he’ll be smelling that until he gets back to his apartment.

And no, he absolutely does not glance at the label for future reference. That would be ridiculous.

When he returns to the kitchen, all he smells is coffee, and he tells himself it’s a relief.

“Perfect timing,” Deans says, passing him a plate of toast with peanut butter and half an apple on the side. “Mugs to the right of the sink, help yourself.”

_ Thank you _ is what a normal person would say. Castiel, on the other hand, blurts out, “I used your deodorant.”

Dean’s plate clatters as it hits the counter and blessedly does not fall any further. “Uh.”

“I hope that’s alright.”

Dean’s wide eyes have to be surprise, shock at this taboo that Castiel should have known he was breaking. Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? Or better yet, not been such an absolute _ alien _—

“Yeah, no, that’s—that’s fine, Cas. Use what you want. You can shower, if you—uh. Yeah.”

Turning to the fridge, Castiel stares into its depths, ostensibly searching for milk, actually debating crawling in and never coming out.

“S’in the door,” Dean mutters.

This is a disaster.

When he comes out with the milk, though, Dean is standing much closer than he should be, staring at him. He’s pink in the cheeks, and that can’t be right, he’s supposed to be trying to get away from Castiel, trying to shove him out the door as quick as possible. Here, I’ve got a travel mug, borrow it, take it, anything to get you out of my house, weirdo— 

But Dean just licks his lips and says, “I really am glad you came over.”

Cas presses his lips together and puts down the milk. “You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“It’s true, though. I—” Dean stops, considers his words carefully, and lets a shrug slide off his shoulders. “I like hanging out with you, that’s all.”

Castiel squints. “You do.”

“Yes.”

“_ You _ like hanging out with… me.”

Dean shrugs again. “Yeah. Maybe once you’re not so busy, we could, uh. Do it more?”

Cas ponders that, swallowing against the frantic tattoo of his heart. There’s a million things he feels like he ought to say to Dean to head him off this path—you should know, Dean, I’m troubled. I’m socially awkward in the extreme. I’ve lost people. I’ve lost so much, I can’t take it anymore. But some demon seems to have taken control of his mouth, because what he says instead is, “TimTam will probably still need check ups.”

There’s no way Cas will ever grow accustomed to Dean’s smile. He has an unnerving feeling like Dean has seen right through him, down to the secret heart that desperately craves his attention, even if he doesn’t deserve it. “Yeah,” Dean says. “I’m sure he will,” he says. Then he picks up his coffee and plate and carries it back over to the couch. “Come on, toast’s getting cold. You like cartoons?”

Castiel should beg off. He should high tail it back to his studies, his books, his animals, his business. He should leave this gorgeous man here with his coffee and his comfortable couch and his amazing artwork.

Instead, Cas stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having some tough times with my creativity lately, and comments are one of the biggest things that keep me going. So if you like this, let me know, even if it's just a quick word. Thanks so much for reading <3<3<3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home sick from work so have a random (nice long) chapter on a Sunday
> 
> Enjoy!

**Dean: **Hey

**Cas: **Good morning

**Cas: **How's TimTam? 

**Dean: **Fine I guess. Sleeping a lot

**Cas: **Cats do that

**Cas: **Do you think I should come check on him? 

**Dean: **Might be a good idea

**Dean: **Bring your books if you want. I don't mind. 

**Cas: **I have that case study to finish. 

**Dean: **My coffee table's all yours. You like burgers? 

**Cas: **I love burgers :-) 

**Dean:** Cool

~~

The walk from the cafe to Winchester, Ink is just long enough for sweat to spring up on Castiel’s brow. Not because it’s hot—it’s still a cool, damp, breezy spring—but because his nerves are ridiculous.

But it’s fine. He can do this.

The bell over the door twinkles brightly, and he’s instantly assaulted by how every inch of this place screams _ Dean. _Dean’s art on the walls. Dean’s music floating on the air. The meticulous monochrome reminds Castiel, somehow, of Dean’s apartment, even though Dean’s apartment is full of color; it takes him a moment to realize that it’s the picture frames, all the same sleek black squares. The man himself is standing at a counter talking with an enthusiastic blonde girl who’s clutching a sketchbook and a handful of photos. Dean’s got this politely interested smile, but when he catches sight of Castiel, he straightens up and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Castiel becomes abruptly aware of his hands. He wipes his palms on his jeans, then tucks his hands into his pockets—nope, that’s awkward, too. 

What’s he supposed to do? He has no idea what the etiquette is, here. Is he in line behind this woman? Or should he take a seat on one of the padded benches? There’s an odd assortment of magazines on the little table, so clearly it’s a waiting area of some kind. But Castiel just stands there like an idiot, staring at a National Geographic cover like he’s trying to fall into it.

He stares so hard that he doesn’t notice when the blonde girl turns, her conversation apparently over, and nearly runs straight into him.

“Oh!” she yelps. “Sorry! Didn’t see you.” Her eyes are just a little bit wider than they should be. It’s disconcerting.

“It—it’s fine,” Castiel manages, then they dance around each other so that she can make it out the door and he can finally achieve the counter.

Dean’s practically glowing. Cas tries not to notice how his T-shirt is tight across his chest or how the light through the window catches in his eyes, but it’s a hopeless venture. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says, his smile small in stature, but it suffuses his face and voice. “Welcome to Winchester, Ink.”

Cas can’t help but smile back. “Thank you,” he says. Then stalls out again.

Dean clears his throat, fiddling with some paperwork on the counter. “So, uh. You looking to get inked? Or—”

“Oh—no. I mean. Not today.” Castiel swallows down his stomach, which is suddenly in his throat. He sucks in a deep breath and forces himself to say what brought him over here. “I was thinking of an ear piercing.”

Castiel can’t quite decipher the look that flashes across Dean’s face. It’s gone before he gets a good look at it, and Dean calls over his shoulder. “Hey, Sammy! Got a family discount for ya.”

“One sec!” Sam’s voice echoes from behind the screens.

Dean starts gathering up a selection of paperwork and a clipboard. “Sam’ll go over the specifics with you, but for now, you can start filling this out,” he says. Then, while Cas looks over the waiver and the form that asks him to confirm that he is sober and sound of mind, Dean leans against the counter in a way that makes his shoulders and biceps strain the seams of his flannel. Not that Cas is noticing that kind of thing. No, he’s reading his waiver. “So what brought this on, huh? Celebrating the end of midterms?”

Cas’s palms go sweaty again, sticking to the paper and slipping on the clipboard. “I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe I just feel like I needed to do something—drastic. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Celebrating midterms is as good a reason as any.”

He can tell Dean’s eyes are on him, peering deeper than he wants them to see, but Castiel focuses on closely reading every line on his form before adding his initials.

Then his eyes catch on a small hand-written sign taped to the front of the counter. 

_ If you can’t find us, check the cat cafe next door. _

“Is that actually necessary?”

Dean cranes over the counter to confirm what he’s pointing at. “Oh,” he says with a laugh. “Yeah, Sam put that up weeks ago. In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve stolen most of my employees. Unless they actively have a needle in their hands, they’re at your place.”

“I’d apologize, but I didn’t actually ‘steal’ your employees. They came of their own free will.”

Dean raises both hands. “All I know is, I have to keep a lint roller back here now because all the cat hair is not sanitary.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow and squints over the counter at Dean’s kilt. He doesn’t have to say a word.

“Hey, shut up,” Dean says, caught between a blush and a laugh, and, yes, grabs an honest-to-god lint roller and starts scrubbing the orange fluff of his kilt.

“Mango?” Cas guesses.

“Yeah, the furball won’t leave me alone. I think he smells TimTam.”

A little roll of guilt makes its way down Castiel’s chest. TimTam has almost certainly recovered from his altercation, and he should probably stop imposing on Dean and find a more permanent solution. He’s still not sure what that will look like, but— 

But having TimTam staying with Dean has been his excuse for spending so much time over there. Once this holding pattern resolves, he's not sure what's going to happen to their friendship. And that scares him. 

Castiel opens his mouth, but before he can get out a totally innocuous question about Dean’s allergies, Sam and his previous victim appear from behind the privacy screens. Sam’s going over aftercare, and the slender young man seems to be walking gingerly, which—is alarming, when Castiel thinks about it for a second.

“And no extra-curriculars for at least six weeks,” Sam’s saying. “You hear me, Garth?”

The slender man rolls his eyes. “I hear ya, Sam. It’s not my first rodeo, you know.”

“Definitely no rodeos,” Sam says with an admonishing finger. Then he’s bidding the fellow goodbye and sidling up to Castiel at the counter. For a second, Cas is more afraid of the predatory grin on his face than he is of his budding affection for Dean. Which is saying something. “Didn’t expect to see you in here,” Sam says. “Don’t your cats poke enough holes in your flesh?”

“Sam, lay off,” Dean says before Cas can get in a word to defend himself. “This is your first piercing, right, Cas?”

Cas nods.

Sam’s smile softens into something less shark-like, more genuine. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be gentle.” And then he _ winks _. 

“Oh my god,” Dean shakes his head. “Don’t believe a word he says, Cas. He’s like a puppy: all noise, no teeth.”

Cas can’t help his head-tilt as he pulls his waiver off the clipboard and hands it back to Dean. “Puppies actually have very sharp teeth,” he says. “And very little control over the strength of their bite.”

“Then he’s like a geriatric old dog who’s already lost them all,” Dean says, taking the clipboard and using it to whack Sam in the arm. “Don’t scare off our neighbor,” he says, then takes a seat at a desk with an aging computer and a sea of papers cascading over its surface.

“Right this way,” Sam says with a gesture through the small maze of privacy screens. He leads Cas to a makeshift room that resembles a doctor or dentist’s office far more than expected, and has Cas take a seat on the padded leather chair while he washes up and starts preparing his equipment.

“Basic earlobe, right?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Just one? Or both?”

“Just one. The right one.”

Sam gives him a smirk like he knows exactly why Cas picked the right ear. “Easy enough,” he says, then launches into a polished professional spiel about aftercare that Castiel is careful to commit to memory, even though he also says he’ll send him home with instructions. “You’re going to have to be careful around your animals for a while, too,” Sam says at the end. “You’ve gotta be aware that cats are absolutely disgusting, right?”

Cas prickles, defenses up, even though he’s right. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam laughs. “They dig in their own poop, Cas.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Just poke a hole in me, please.”

“Roger that,” Sam says, then dons some gloves and starts swabbing Castiel’s right ear with something cold and certainly sanitizing. Then, as he’s marking his entry point with a purple pen, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Cas says, trying not to look at the assortment of needles on the tray. He’s starting to feel a bit queasy.

“What are your intentions toward my brother?”

Castiel’s brain goes blank. Static is all he hears.

Sam instructs him to take a deep breath, which he does, and then the static is flattened out and muted by a bolt of lightning searing his earlobe. Fire spreads up and _ into _ his ear, and he struggles against the instinct to jolt away, forcing himself to stay still and breathe through the pain.

It’s fine. This is why he’s here. He can do this.

Even though the burn spreads right across his eyes and he feels like he might tear up.

He sucks up the urge, forces it right back down his throat.

And then it’s over. Sam’s stripping off his gloves and saying, “All done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Cas’s ear feels twice its normal size and throbbing hot… but the actual pain is fading quickly. He shakes his head a little and can just barely feel the weight of a simple barbell pulling on his lobe. He looks around for a reflective surface and finds Sam offering him a hand mirror to examine his new adornment.

It’s nothing more than a simple bead of silver, but it glimmers against his dark hair. Castiel is not usually one for vanity, but he finds himself smirking at his reflection, feeling roguish and dashing.

He did it.

After he’s preened as much as he’s comfortable with, Cas hands the mirror back to Sam. “Thank you,” he says.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Cas glares at him. “I was a little distracted.”

Sam shrugs, his grin wide and shit-eating. “Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but. Cas’s glare intensifies.

“Are you a sadist, Sam Winchester?”

Sam just shrugs again, like maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Then he squares up, dropping his smile and settling in for a real discussion. “I’m serious, though,” he says, voice low. “You have to know Dean likes you.”

That puts the static back in Cas’s ears. “He—he what?”

Sam’s eyebrows fly up, forehead creasing. “Seriously? Dude. He takes a pill every day now just so that he can come visit you. What did you think that meant?”

“I—I guess I didn’t think.”

“And now you guys are spending an awful lot of evenings together. Now, I’m not worried about my brother’s virtue or whatever—” he makes a disgusted kind of face. “That ship has sailed. But I just want you to know, he’s a lot softer than he looks. Okay? He’s got a heart.”

Cas can’t help the warmth that suffuses his chest at that. “I know,” he says. “I’ve seen that much.”

Sam just watches him for a second. “You like him too, don’t you?”

The answer is like a bubble swelling up in Cas’s chest, but he can’t make himself open his mouth.

“Have you guys, uh—” Sam makes a vague gesture with one hand.

“No. No, he hasn’t tried to start anything, and I’ve—” been too afraid, Cas doesn’t say.

Sam just keeps watching him, long and measuring, then offers a hand to pull him up out of the chair. “Look,” Sam says once they’re a little closer to eye-to-eye. “If he hasn’t made a move by now, he’s not going to. Ball’s in your court. Now, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested, and that’s fine. You can just let it lie; that's probably what he expects at this point. But—”

“No, I—I do—I want to.” It’s bizarre admitting it out loud, like jumping out of an airplane. “I just.” He sucks in air. There’s a lot he could say right now, but Sam doesn’t need to know most of it, and he’s not sure he would actually be able to force it all past his lips. He’s gotten very good at pushing it down. “It’s hard,” he says eventually.

Sam claps his shoulder with one big hand. “Don’t worry. He’ll catch you.”

And then Sam’s leading them back out toward the main area. Cas follows on legs that don’t quite seem to touch the ground.

~~

Becky’s a squirmer.

“I’m sorry!” she whines after the third time Dean's had to stop because her wriggling almost made him miss his lines. “I didn’t expect it to hurt this bad.”

Dean bites down on his frustration and forces a smile. “It’s okay. I’ve got an idea.” He reaches for a spray bottle labeled Dr. Numb. “This is a lidocaine spray. Just a mild topical analgesic. Might help.” _ Because if you can’t keep still, I’m going to fuck this up _, he doesn’t say.

“Okay,” she says, and settles back down with her arm dutifully stretched out and a look of determination on her face.

Dean loves his art. The smell of the ink, experimenting with different styles, the perfectionism required by permanence. He loves the challenge of taking someone’s ideas and spinning them up into something they'll love for the rest of their lives. It takes a little bit of mind reading sometimes, but it's worth it. Usually. 

Sometimes, though. Sometimes he wishes he could just do what he wants.

And maybe that means he needs to take a break. Take some time off from his commission-based work and refocus himself. Find his center again, his inspiration. His muse, if you want to call it that.

The downside of tattooing is that you rarely get to just do your own art for your own art’s sake. Everyone’s got an idea, with varying levels of detail and skill in expressing what they want. Everyone who walks through his door wants him to do something very specific, and that’s good; they should want that, because they’re the ones who have to live with it.

Becky had been extremely specific. Her bicep cuff is built of woven symbols and quotes from her favorite book-series-turned-TV-show, _ Devil’s Trap. _ Dean’s seen the show, and it’s good, and he even kind of agrees with her that two of the leads would look real hot in the sack together. And he’s certainly not one to judge on the fandom tattoo front. But the kind of artistry involved in stitching together established symbols hasn’t exactly been scratching his creative itch this week.

Not to mention the other itches that aren’t getting scratched.

That damn earring is taunting him.

Dean’s never really been one for piercings, but _ fuck _if it doesn’t look good on Cas. He hasn’t been able to stop staring at it. Dean didn’t need another reason to fixate on the curve of his jaw, didn’t need even more sparkles in his eyes on the rare occasions Dean can get him to laugh. Didn’t need even more temptation to run his hands through his hair, pull him close and bury his face in the crook of Cas’s neck, pull that newly adorned earlobe in between his teeth and let his tongue play with the barbell—

“Almost done with the linework,” he says. “The color might be easier for you.” Or it might be harder, different people have different opinions, but why put that idea in her head? Suggestion is a powerful force.

Dean’s seen a lot of piercings in his time. Occupational hazard. He knows all the ways that metal can go through skin. A dozen different spots in the ear, eyebrows, lips, tongues, nipples, and other, more exotic folds of skin. Now that the door’s been cracked open, his overactive imagination is having a field day. One of these days, he’s going to get caught staring at Cas’s nipples as they peak under his shirt, picturing what that would look like with rings or studs, what that would feel like under his tongue. How much he could get Cas to squirm.

Not to mention the idea of _ tattooing Cas. _

Customers who walk in off the street, that’s one thing. They're canvasses with brains. But tattooing people you know? That’s something else. There’s an intimacy to it, a knowledge of skin and blood and pain response, that can either be uncomfortable or deeply fulfilling, depending on the relationship. And god, when he thinks about knowing Cas’s skin like that—

Not that he’d ever pressure Cas into anything he doesn’t want. He’d seemed jumpy about the idea, but not like he’d never thought about it before. If Cas wants anything, Dean’ll be here for him and just hope he’s the one Cas wants for it.

Shit. If he keeps spacing out like this, he’s going to ruin his own linework, twitchy arm or no.

"How's the pain?" he asks to distract himself.

"Better, thank you," Becky says. 

It's just a job, and Cas is just a friend. He's gotta keep it straight in his head. No matter how many hours they spend on the couch together, with Cas pretending to study while they watch goofy low-budget ‘80s fantasy movies. No matter how his quiet presence has filled in the gaps in Dean's lonely apartment while he actually studies and Dean works on art. No matter that when Dean had shown him his Led Zeppelin shoulder cap and half-sleeve, Cas had instinctively reached out to touch—people do that, even though it's just skin—and Dean had lit up like the northern fucking lights with anticipation, aching for the touch of those hands. 

All he’d gotten was one single fingertip tenderly tracing the hermit's hood before Cas had pulled his hand away and apologized for impropriety. Dean could have wept. And had definitely replayed that feather-light touch in his mind more than was decent. 

Just a friend. 

It was bullshit and he knew it, but he was going to keep telling himself that until it killed him. 

~~

**Dean: **Hey, just got the map for Rainbow Revels. You see what I see? 

**Cas: **I did. I suppose we're destined to be neighbors forever. 

**Dean: **You ever been?

**Cas:** To Rainbow Revels? I’ve never had the occasion

**Cas: **What’s the difference between this and the Pride festival in June?

**Dean: **It’s in March

**Dean: **¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Cas: **Really? That’s all?

**Dean: **Oh and I guess there’s no parade.

~~

Rainbow Revels is living proof that you don’t have to be obliquely honoring the Stonewall riots to celebrate Pride. It was started by a pair of leather-workers in town who wanted a smaller, local-focused queer business showcase when the market wasn’t saturated by the big festivals in June. Jesse and Cesar are old friends who wear a lot of Dean’s ink, so of course he’d been on board from the start.

Dean considered it a stroke of genius when he first brought face and body paints to Revels. Obviously, he’s not going to do a whole day’s worth of impulse tattoos, but body paints are a nice compromise. And it lets him just get his hands dirty and paint for a while, do something less serious-business and permanent than tattoos. He also sells prints of his work and a selection of body jewelry, but most people come in for a colorful mask to wear for the day. Dean’s happy to oblige.

“You kids want some coffee?” Donna asks, her cheer straining over the music from the stage where they’re setting up for the talent show.

Dean shakes his head as he puts the finishing touches on a space-themed chest piece for an abnormally tall fellow kilt-wearer. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he says. “Any more and I won’t be able to make a straight line.”

Jody cackles. “You wouldn’t know straight if it bit you on the ass, boy,” she says, accepting her coffee from Donna with a kiss.

“If it bit me on the ass, it wouldn’t be straight, now, would it?” Dean snarks back. “You’re good to go, buddy.”

The tall guy—seriously, even Sam would be looking up at him—winks as he heads out of the booth, but Dean’s not here to flirt. Not with him, anyway.

Cas is in some kinda funk, probably down to Mango being an absolute pain in the ass since the word go. It’s a fun idea, having one of the cats to visit with the people, but as gregarious as Mango is at the shop, he hasn’t stopped yeowling all day. Cas has moved his enclosure to the back of the booth instead of front and center where he was supposed to be, but it hasn’t really helped.

Dean ambles over to where Cas is sprinkling yet another round of catnip through the bars; it falls on Mango’s furocious head. “How you holding up?”

Castiel sighs. “Better than some of us,” he says. “I really thought he’d be better at this.”

Sympathy pangs deep in Dean’s heart. Mango was supposed to be what drew people in. Now it’s just Donna and her coffee-peddling skills, which are great, but not really what Cas had been hoping to show off here.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dean says. “Maybe you can run him back to the shop and pick up one or two of the others? Maybe Melody and Meringue?”

“Maybe,” Cas sighs, turning his gaze to the crowd. The lack of an official parade has not stopped anybody from dressing to the nines. The rainbows may be dulled by the gray overcast and springtime drizzle, but they are omnipresent, along with various other combinations of colorful stripes, most of which Dean has at least some passing familiarity.

“Is it just me, or are there more new flags every year?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs. “Kids will be kids. They all gotta find their identity somehow.” Cas isn’t wearing any rainbow apparel, nor any of the other obvious color combinations. Dean’s wearing a kilt with the bi pride colors nestled in its pleats, and he painted a rainbow on Donna’s cheek first thing this morning to go with her rainbow bead earrings. Jody’s wearing a shirt striped in the lesbian flag colors. But the only hint of color on Cas is a navy sweater vest. He stares at the colorful throng, and Dean stares at Cas.

“So, uh—” he starts. “Is Donna—”

He’s cut off by an announcement over the megaphone, distorted almost beyond intelligibility, but the crowd seems to understand him, because what follows is a raucous cheer and a definite directional change in the swarm.

“That’ll be the talent show starting,” Dean says to Cas’s bemused expression. “Probably the end of our foot traffic for a while.”

“At least you have foot traffic,” Cas grumbles, as one of the passersby starts to edge close with a distinct ‘oh look at the kitty!’ smile on her face, only to be scared off by Mango’s hiss and fierce growl. “Maybe I should just take him home.”

He looks so dejected in that moment that Dean finds his hand moving before he gives it permission to land a friendly pat on Cas’s arm. “C’mere,” he says. “I got an idea. Might cheer you up, at least.”

Cas frowns but makes his way around the flimsy barrier between their two booths. Their color schemes here are just as clashing as they are at their shops, but Dean found himself smiling as they were setting up that morning. So help him, he’s grown fond of the garishness.

He sits Cas down in one of the two chairs situated close together, then picks up his paints and a brush. The furrow clears from Cas’s brow the moment he figures out what’s going on. “Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Yeah, but I wanna,” Dean butts in. “Unless you don’t want, in which case, fine. But it’s hard to be grumpy with your face painted,” he adds with his most charming smile.

Cas eyes the paints with suspicion, and the way his own knees are nestled right between Dean’s wide-spread thighs. Dean notices that, too, and has to try real hard to ignore the thump in his belly.

“Just let me—” he shifts his chair slightly to the side, but no further away from Dean. “Just so that I can see Mango.”

Dean nods, then resituates his own chair. “Awesome. Any requests?”

Cas cocks an eyebrow at him. “You invited me over here. I assumed you had an idea.”

Dean’s brain grinds to a halt. “Uh.” Goddammit, why does he have to blush so damn easily?

“Go ahead, go wild. I want to see what you’ll do with me.” Cas says eventually, and Dean finds himself warm all over.

“‘Kay,” he says, feeling a smile tug on his cheeks. He forces himself to look Cas in the eye, suddenly bashful at the closeness he, personally, forced upon them. He examines Cas’s face—god, his eyes are so blue, which at least gives him a starting point. He lets himself stare for probably longer than he should, selfishly grateful for the opportunity to just look at him from this narrow distance.

Cas stares right back.

Dean doesn’t realize they’re staring into each other’s eyes until Cas looks away, glancing behind him to check on Mango. That’s when Dean shakes himself awake and dips his brush into the paints.

The first touch of the brush to Cas’s brow makes him flinch. “Cold,” he says.

“Sorry.”

Dean just paints for a while, losing himself in sweeps of color, shape and highlight. Faces are kind of foreign territory to him; usually the skin he works with is more of a blank canvas. But Cas’s face is anything but blank. There’s eyes to frame, brows to incorporate, the straight line of a nose to work around, sharp cheekbones forming a strong foundation. Dean loses himself in the lines and shapes, the colors, in carefully considering the texture of his skin. With most people, he’d just ask them to turn their head one way or another when he needs a different angle, but with Cas, he swallows on a dry throat before cupping his chin in three fingers and tilting him where he needs it. He follows dutifully, and Dean feels the click of his swallow against his knuckle. He takes his hand away.

“Did you always want to be a tattoo artist?” Cas asks, voice sounding far away, in spite of how close they are. Like they’re in a dream.

Dean shakes his head and switches brushes. “I thought I’d get into advertising,” he says. “Or, I dunno. Designing company logos or whatever. After our folks died, I had to support me ‘n’ Sammy, so I was as mercenary as I could get while still doing art.” He shrugs, adding paint in sharp little strokes now over the longer sweeps. “Sam’s actually the one who pushed me to get into tattooing. He was all ‘don’t worry ‘bout me, Dean.’ Little brothers, am I right?”

Cas’s smile is soft, small, and sad. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, and Dean sees again a glimpse of whatever deep well of ache he carries inside him. He wants to plunge right down to the bottom, but it’s not his to explore.

They’re quiet for a while again. Then Cas draws in a deep breath.

“This—the cafe, vet school, they’re—they were my sister’s dreams. She was either going to run a coffee shop, or become a vet, or both,” he says. “She always loved animals. We both did, especially cats.”

“And what about you?” Dean asks. “What did you want to be?”

“I wanted to be a lion tamer. Among other things.” He says it quiet and bashful, dropping his chin when Dean goes to switch colors again.

“Well, with what you’ve got on your hands right now, I’d say you’re not far off,” Dean says with a jerk of his thumb back at Cas’s booth. Cas startles and looks over his shoulder. Dean sneaks a peek backwards, too, and spies Mango restlessly pacing and pawing at the bars of his enclosure, but still safe. Cas relaxes.

“She wasn’t actually my sister,” he says, and Dean has to track backwards in the conversation to remember who he’s talking about. As he’s doing so, he registers the past tense.

“Was?” he asks, in the quiet tones he’s way too familiar with.

Cas nods. “She was my cousin. Her mother, my aunt, raised us both. She was the only mother I ever knew, really. She left me the money I needed to make Anna’s dreams come true.”

Dean’s starting to get the shape of things, and every bone in his body aches for Cas. He wants to take him in his arms, protect him, let him heal. He at least wants to offer words of comfort, but he knows better than most how useless those usually are.

So instead, he speaks with his hands, his ink, his art, tracing the colors he sees in Cas on his skin for all the world to see.

“Alright,” he says after a long silence. “All done.”

Cas shakes himself like he’s coming out of a trance. “Can I see?” Dean’s already reaching for a paint-spattered hand mirror.

Cas’s eyes go wide when he sees what Dean’s created: a pair of intricate wings over his brows and cheekbones, done in sky blue and pearlescent white, with just the faintest hint of rainbow colors on the feathertips. “Oh,” he breathes, reaching up to touch gentle fingers to the edge. “That’s—”

“I hope you don’t mind the rainbow,” Dean says with a shrug. “I couldn’t help it. Kind of a theme of the day.”

Cas pulls his gaze away from the mirror to stare at Dean again. “No, it’s fine.” He blushes under the paints, a tiny smile cracking. 

They’re still sitting close, knees dovetailed together, feet and ankles shuffling against each other. The denim of his jeans is scratchy on the bare skin of Dean’s legs, and Dean has to try real hard not to indulge himself in that texture and the warmth underneath. It would be so easy to just squeeze his knees a little, press one of Cas’s between his own. He could lean in closer, slide to the edge of his chair. He could pull Cas in by the chin, and— 

All at once, Cas goes rigid in his seat. “Where’s Mango?”

~~

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _ stupid. _

Mango has escaped. Cas is out of the stool in a too-fast heartbeat, adrenaline surging him forward. The enclosure is supposed to be cat-proof, and he had foolishly trusted it, but there’s the door, standing open, and not a trace of orange fur in sight. “Mango!” Cas yelps, panic getting the better of him. He hears Dean swearing behind him.

He wants to be mad at Dean, but he’s just mad at himself. He’d let himself get distracted by a beautiful man he shouldn’t even be wasting time with, spilling his guts out, things Dean certainly doesn’t need to know, just making things more awkward like he _ always does— _

And now Mango is gone.

Worst case scenarios spool out through Castiel’s mind: Mango dashing scared into the nearby street, busy with midday traffic. Mango trampled under the feet of the unwary crowd. Mango scooped up by some faceless human with ill intent. Mango lost and terrified in a dirty alleyway, living on scraps and fighting off ferals. Mango never coming home. Mango dying alone and hungry and afraid. Mango— 

Tears fight their way into his eyes as he beats around the tent bags and coffee beans. He feels a warm hand on his shoulder and turns, seeing Dean’s worried face. “Cas, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up and help me look for him,” Cas barks. He feels the cracking paint, barely even dry on his face. God, he must look ridiculous. It’s a beautiful piece of art, and he’s going to ruin it before he even has time to appreciate it.

This is not how today was supposed to go.

He tears out of the booth, racing through the crowd. This dizzying cornucopia of colors—his eyes catch on every glint of orange in every rainbow. Distracting.

The talent show is in full swing, a queen in a corset with enormous hair doing something improbable with a giant rubber duck. There are too many people. Too many legs. Castiel wants to yell at them all to clear out, thinks about shouting _ fire _, but the image of Mango trampled pops into his head again, so he doesn’t. It should probably be alarming that that’s the only reason he doesn’t.

He skirts the edge of the crowd, considering crawling on his belly to peer between the legs.

_ Stop, Castiel _, he berates himself. Mango wouldn’t—he’d be at the edges. He’d be hiding.

Oh god, he’s hiding, what if I never find him— 

“Cas!”

What if he’s gone forever— 

“Hey, Cas!”

It finally registers that Dean is calling him, and he turns— 

He’s never seen a more beautiful sight than Dean Winchester holding his cat. Mango is clinging to him for dear life, blue eyes whole circles, and it must be painful how he’s digging his claws in, but Dean is just holding him tight to his chest. The relief that floods through Castiel makes him weak at the knees, weak in the belly, weak— 

Castiel strides toward Dean and doesn’t stop.

He has exactly half a second to register Dean’s surprise, his wide eyes, before their lips crash together. Dean’s breath on his cheek, Dean’s mouth under his, Dean’s body in his hands, and Castiel is weak.

Then Dean tilts his head _ just right _, and he’s kissing him back, dear lord, he’s kissing him back— 

Between them, Mango’s squirming calms down. Their kiss goes on and on, one of Cas’s hands sliding up to pet the short hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, and Dean either whimpers or laughs as he pulls back a little. Not far, just enough to speak.

“Think we could do this when I don’t have cat claws in my neck?” he asks, his voice gone high and shaky.

Castiel tries to blink some sense back into himself, but it won’t come. All he can see is stars, all he can feel is Dean. He wonders if he’s about to faint.

Snug against both their chests, Mango starts to purr.

~~

The dam has cracked, but it hasn’t yet burst; Dean’s just waiting for the slow trickle to erupt into a flood. Even though Cas is mostly focused on keeping Mango calm in his carrier while Dean drives them back to the Toe Bean, Dean keeps catching his glance, heated and sticky. Dean can’t keep his eyes off Cas, either. His lips still tingle from that kiss, his knees all trembly and his fingers itching. He watches Cas’s hands clench and the restless shifting of his legs under Mango’s carrier. At a stoplight, Dean dares to stretch one arm out along the back of the Impala’s bench seat—a classic move he’s used plenty of times—to casually rest his fingertips against the back of Cas’s neck.

It’s like a circuit completed. A shock zings up his hand, and Cas’s eyes fall shut as he leans his head back into Dean’s touch. Dean lets his fingertips gently massage his scalp at the base of his skull. “Yes, please,” Cas sighs.

He’s still got Dean’s facepaint on, those wings arching out from his eyes. Dean wonders if he’s going to have to mess up his own handiwork.

He can’t wait.

The car behind them honks, and Dean peels out a little bit under the green light.

As soon as Dean pulls the Impala into a spot—not his best parking job, but whatever—Cas is pushing open the door and hustling as quick as he can up to the Toe Bean’s front door. Dean follows him, shameless now in his appreciation for his shoulder muscles under that sweater vest, for the short wave of his dark hair, the definition of his forearms and his ass in those jeans—

He wonders how much Cas will let him touch today.

He wonders about tomorrow.

He wonders— 

—why Cas has stopped dead in front of him ten feet from the Toe Bean’s door. Dean doesn’t try as hard as he should to not bump into him. “What’s up?”

Cas doesn’t seem to hear him. 

There’s a man standing in front of the Toe Bean, leaning against the window. A short man with curly gray hair and a goatee, and a face that seems friendly except for how his smile has too many teeth.

“Castiel,” he says, and Dean instantly dislikes the oil in his voice. “How nice to see you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to the lovely [Elanor](https://elanor-n-evermind.tumblr.com/) for the beta-read.

“How did you find me?” Castiel is proud that his voice only trembles a little.

“Uh, Cas? What’s up?” Dean is worried, hovering close behind and resting questioning fingertips on Castiel’s arm. Castiel moves away. Uncle Marv has opened his mouth, and Castiel tries to listen through the static in his ears.

“Doesn’t matter how I found you,” he says. “I’m glad I did. I’ve come to take you home, Castiel. Your family misses you.”

The _ thump _ of Castiel’s heart makes it difficult to breathe. “I don’t want anything to do with you or any of the rest of those vultures,” he grumbles, pushing toward the Toe Bean’s door. 

The jangling of the wind chimes is usually a bright, welcoming sound, but today it hits his nerves wrong. Claire’s face shifts from a smile to confusion when she sees Castiel’s expression—probably a stormcloud, even under the ridiculous paint. Castiel hustles into the shop, Dean’s warmth at his back like a human shield between Castiel and the unwelcome visitor.

It doesn’t matter. The chimes ring out again, and Castiel turns to see Marv ambling through the shop, hands in his grubby coat pockets. “Nice place you have here. I’m impressed,” he says, and Castiel’s blood pressure spikes.

“Keep it to yourself,” he bites out.

Marv sighs, his expression turning hangdog. “I’m not your enemy, you know. I’m not here to fight.” He takes a step forward; Meringue stands up from her curled-up spot on the windowsill and stretches her back, her eyes flicking from Marv to Castiel. Tyrion hops down from one of the upper condo cubbies and gives one of his low, grumpy meows.

Dean is still right behind Castiel, and he asks again, “Cas, who is this guy?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Marv says, moving forward with a hand outstretched and a too-sharp smile.

“No,” Castiel snaps at Marv, and then, to Dean, “no one worth knowing.”

“That’s what I get for trying to be polite,” Marv says, withdrawing his hand. “So. You boys look like you’ve been out having fun.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cas squints at him, disgust curling his nose.

“Your face. It’s very, uh—colorful. And is that an ear piercing?” He shakes his head, his face drooping into a disappointed moue. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but—”

“Hey, shove off,” Dean barks, all at once defensive. Castiel just sinks further into the tornado of panic in his brain.

“I suppose you can take the tiger out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the tiger. Now, Castiel. Let’s sit,” he says with the audacity to offer Castiel one of his own chairs in his own shop. “Let’s talk.”

“I have nothing to talk to you about.”

“Come on, be reasonable—”

“Get out of my establishment.”

Dean chimes in. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Dean, please,” Cas says with the hand not still gripping Mango’s carrier finding Dean’s arm. Dean’s like a hunting dog, all his angry lines pointing straight at Marv.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Marv says, flat, dismissive.

“The hell it doesn’t—” 

Cas tightens his fingers on Dean’s arm. “I’m afraid he’s right.”

Dean rounds on him, eyes round and brow crinkling in worry. “Cas—”

“Here,” he says, pressing Mango’s carrier into Dean’s hands. “Put him away. Please?”

Dean glances down to Mango’s carrier, then back up to Cas, clearly conflicted. But he takes the carrier’s handle in hand. “Cas—”

“We’ll talk later,” Cas heads him off.

Dean swallows, a tight motion of his throat, jaw clenching. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Cas just hopes he can keep it.

There’s a snort from Castiel’s uncle, and then a mutter of, “Yeah, I bet you will.”

Dean almost pounces; Castiel can see the tension coiling in his limbs and the acidic glare he throws toward Marv. Cas feels his fingers tighten on Dean’s arm, involuntary, but just enough to hold him in place. Without a word, Dean takes the cat to the back room, kilt swishing, boots thumping, shoulders tight, and Castiel feels like the lining has been torn out of his skin.

Maybe he shouldn’t have chased him off. Now, he’s like one raw exposed nerve, an open wound for Marv to rub salt into.

LaRue brushes against Cas’s leg, a solid, grounding contact. Cas looks down into his smiling face, feels him purr loud and hard. 

“Let me wash this off,” Cas hears himself saying. “Then we’ll take a walk.”

~~

**Dean: **What the f was that about?

**Dean: **Hey, just checking in. You seemed pretty upset.

**Dean: **Hey, Cas. Call me?

**Dean: **Gettin’ kinda worried over here.

~~

As evening slips into night, an anxious knot in Dean’s stomach keeps him from even noticing dinnertime. He stares at his phone, mostly, idly scrolling and pretending he’s not watching for a text. He gets a few from Sam and one from Charlie, and his stomach jumps up to his throat each time.

He finally tosses his phone aside when it starts to give him an eye-strain headache—though that might also be from his second beer on an empty stomach. He flicks on the TV instead and scrolls around until he finds something he can just listen to in the background, shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the couch.

He lets his thoughts fuzz out to the laugh track of some dumb sitcom. His stomach feels weird, somewhere between hungry and nauseous. He should probably eat something, but all his dinner options sound as appealing as wet cardboard.

Why is he even letting himself get so worked up, anyway? Cas had clearly had beef with that guy, but he’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.

Doesn’t help much.

Dean’s about two seconds from checking his phone again when he feels four feline feet land on his thighs. Without even pulling his head up, he drops his hands to stroke TimTam’s sleek fur. He’s shedding with the warming weather; Dean wonders if he’ll have to start using his nasal spray more often or if Cas will want to take him back to the shop soon. Dean’s kinda got used to having the little guy around. It’s nice, having another living thing in the apartment.

TimTam’s pointy little feet walk up Dean’s stomach and chest; Dean cracks an eye and spies his stripey, worried face and big green eyes, pink nose and white whiskers working overtime to sniff his face.

Dean smiles, or as close to it as he can get. “Hey, buddy,” he says. TimTam’s little snuffles turn into purrs in response.

They sit there for a long while, Dean staring off into space while TimTam makes himself comfortable on Dean’s chest, feet tucked up under himself. The pressure is soothing on the ache under Dean’s throat.

“Is he in the mob?” Dean asks all at once. “Or on the run from them, or something?”

TimTam gives a crackly little meow in response.

“C’mon, give me something to work with, here,” he says to the cat. “Does he owe money? Does he have a secret identity I don’t know about? Is he a Russian spy or something?”

TimTam just stands up and turns around on Dean’s chest, lifting his tail so that his business end is about four inches from Dean’s nose.

Dean wrinkles up his face and gently pushes TimTam’s hindquarters off to the side. “Changed my mind,” he says. “Cas can come get you any time.”

Later, after he’s assembled himself a sandwich for a late dinner (and soothed his watering eyes and runny nose with eye drops and spray), TimTam curls up next to his hip with a heavy flop. Dean lets one hand fall down to bury his fingers in his soft coat. That, plus his warm weight and the contented rumble of his purring, manage to keep Dean’s worries to a dull roar.

Son of a bitch, he thinks to himself. He’s a cat person now.

~~

Dean’s early to the Toe Bean the next morning. His worries are hardly soothed when he finds an unwelcome face behind the counter.

“Why hello there, stranger,” says the man with the beard and the oily voice. He’s lost the grubby jacket in favor of a boring blue button-down tucked into khaki trousers. The only two cats in the front room are Tyrion and Simon, both of whom are perched at the top of the cat metropolis, monitoring the situation closely.

Dean cuts right to the chase. “Where’s Cas?”

The guy raises his eyebrows, oozing smugness. “My nephew has come to his senses and is in the process of handing over management of this establishment to me.”

“He—he what?” Dean gawks. “That’s unbelievable.”

“Is it?” Oil-beard asks. “He was in over his head, and he knew it.”

“That’s not—” Dean stops. Changes tactics. “Where’s Donna?” he asks instead.

“Setting up for the, um… _ Rainbow Rebellion? _”

“Revels,” Dean corrects on autopilot. 

“Yeah, that one, and shouldn’t you be there, too?”

“It’s Charlie’s turn, and why do you care?” Dean says, as if it were any of this guy’s business. “You’re taking advantage, here, you know that, right? Even if you somehow convinced Cas this was a good idea, Donna would never stand for it.”

Oil-beard’s brow crinkles in a look of guileless confusion. “Taking advantage? I’m just trying to help my nephew out of a tough spot.”

“He was doing fine.”

“Was he?”

Dean bites his tongue.

“I don’t think you really know Castiel,” Oil-beard says.

“I could say the same to you,” Dean tosses back, but it feels weak. It’s been so hard to get Cas to open up. What does he really know about him? “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“You can call me Marv,” he says, stepping around the counter to shake Dean’s hand. Dean grips a little too tightly, lets go a little too quickly. “I’m the closest family Castiel has left. I’m just here to help. You might say I’m his financial advisor,” and there’s that grin with too many teeth.

Dean squints, trying to get a read on this Marv character. He’s got more information than Dean does, and Dean doesn’t like that. Puts him on the back foot. But whatever this Marv guy thinks he knows, Dean’s not interested in hearing it. He needs to talk to Cas.

“Where is he?”

Marv shrugs. “At his hovel of an apartment, I assume.”

“Great, thanks.” Dean’s out the door in two seconds.

~~

Dean gets turned around once or twice trying to remember where Cas’s apartment complex is, but he eventually manages it. There’s only a dozen or so doors, but Dean’s never set foot out of his car when dropping him off, so he only has a vague idea which one might be his. He meanders through the parking lot for a minute, trying not to look shady and heading in the general direction he’s seen Cas walk.

Then he spies a mostly empty silver dish next to one of the ground floor units, and that’s good enough for a guess. Cas is absolutely the kind of guy who would leave food out for the neighborhood cats. 

The curtains are drawn and there’s no light inside, no sign of movement. Dean knocks, nerves jangling and knees bouncing with impatience.

Nothing. Swallowing down his nerves, he balls his fist and knocks again, harder. 

Still no answer. “Cas? You home?” he hollers through the door.

“Dean?”

Cas’s voice, even growlier than usual, comes from above his head. Dean cranes his neck and spies Cas looming over the landing to the second floor apartments. His hair is standing up in untidy snarls, and he’s unshaven, wearing only a grubby T-shirt and boxers. Even so, he’s a sight for sore eyes.

“Hey,” Dean says, wind suddenly dropping out of his sails. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to talk to you,” he says, shoving his hands in his kilt pockets.

Cas’s head tilts, and he gives him something between a squint and a glare. “So why are you bothering Mrs. Walkins?”

Dean looks back at the door he’d been pounding on, then eyes the curtains. He thinks he sees one of them flick more tightly closed.

Awkward. He gives a little wave and yells through the window, “Sorry, uh, Mrs. Walkins.”

Cas’s eyeroll is almost audible. “Just get up here,” he growls down at Dean, then disappears into the upstairs apartment. Dean takes the stairs two at a time, rattling the metal rail.

It smells unkempt. The carpet is grimy with foot traffic, and Dean can see a good week’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink. Maybe longer, considering that it’s just Cas. It’s a small shoebox of an apartment which somehow looks even smaller for how little actual furniture there is. There are stacks of papers and textbooks everywhere, one corner devoted to several comically large bags of cat food and litter, and a laptop sits on a stepstool that seems to function as a desk. The only seating is a rumpled futon without a frame propped up against the wall. Cas kicks a pile of laundry—clean or dirty, Dean can’t tell—off the end of the futon and into a corner, then turns his stormy expression toward Dean.

For a long second, they just stare at each other, Cas sullen and shuttered, Dean completely at a loss. The hell did he even come here for? Where does he start?

“Well?” Cas prompts eventually.

“Uh. I went by the shop,” he says.

Cas blinks hard. “And?”

“And that guy was there, and you weren’t, and I got worried.”

Castiel studies the carpet like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Dean watches his jaw clench and unclench, slower than a heartbeat, faster than breathing. He takes a chance on a step closer.

“Cas, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” It’s a reflexive response, and Dean reels his tongue in as soon as it’s out. “I mean—no. It’s not nothing. That’s clear as the damn Liberty Bell.”

“It’s none of your concern.” Cas’s eyes are still down, but not really staring at the carpet anymore. Just sort of into the mid-distance. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing much.

Slowly, Dean leans until he can catch Cas’s line of sight with his own. His eyes snap back into focus, wide in his furrowed face. Dean doesn’t say anything, just holds his gaze and tries to pour in as much as he can into Cas without words. How deeply he cares. How strong his feelings have grown. His desire to help.

With a great inhale, Cas’s wall crumbles to dust. His eyes shut and he sinks down onto the futon, raking his hands through his hair. Dean takes a seat next to him. The futon isn’t as hard as he expected it to be.

“He’s my uncle,” Cas says. “Uncle Marv.”

“Yeah, so he said. He called himself your ‘financial advisor.’”

The sour eye-roll Cas gives is strong enough to curdle milk. “He’s the one who found me and got me standing up straight for the reading of my aunt’s will.” Cas sucks in a diver-deep breath before continuing, the tension in his arms braced on his knees while his fingers curl into knots. “He found me in what can charitably be described as an opium den, although I assure you, he and the rest of my family had much harsher words about it. They were… not pleased when they found out that all of my aunt’s considerable resources had been left to me and me alone.”

“Okay.”

“When he found me, I was at the bottom of a two-year downward spiral after Suzie died.”

“Suzie?”

Castiel scrubs his face with his hands, blowing air between his palms. “My therapy cat,” he says, voice muffled. “A certified companion animal. I’d had her since I was nine years old, and she’s the only reason I survived high school.”

Dean’s heart pings at the vision of gangly teenaged Cas, young and scared, bullied and hurting. His palm aches with the urge to reach out and touch; he digs in with his fingernails instead.

Castiel drops his hands from his face, eyes suspiciously wet. “I’m not a stable person, Dean. My uncle knows that. He knew that at the time, and now he’s found me again to try and get what he believes belongs to him.”

“What does he want?”

“Money. But I’ve already spent most of it on tuition and the cafe, so he wants to claim the shop as his rightful asset. And he says I owe him the balance of my tuition.”

“Bullshit.” This time, Dean doesn’t even try to stop the reflex. “That’s bullshit, Cas. You don’t owe him anything.”

“He knows me, Dean. He’ll use it against me.”

Dean holds up a pointed finger. “No, he knows who you _ were _, not who you are.”

“I’m an addict and a delinquent.” He even sounds like he believes it.

“No. Cas. You’re on, what, your fourth year of medical school?”

“Veterinary school, but—”

“Same thing. Human doctors only need to know one species’ anatomy; how many do you know?”

Cas says nothing.

“Exactly. And you’re running a brand new business on the side? Come on, man—”

“Donna’s running most of it. I would have crashed and burned without her.”

“So what? So what—just because you’re not a one-man army doesn’t mean you’re not doing amazing things. You are doing great things with your life, and you will keep doing more great things, and this Marv character has no part in any of that. He can fuck off.”

Castiel laughs. He actually laughs, bitter and humorless and right in Dean’s face. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but look around you. Does this look like the living space of a responsible adult? I don’t know what I was playing at.”

Dean doesn’t even blink. “Priorities, man. So, what, you didn’t have time to shop for a couch while you were building a business and going to college. Who cares?”

Cas just shakes his head. “He’s going to take it all from me.”

“How, Cas? How? Does he have a warrant? Some legitimate claim on the money? He can’t take your education from you, that’s for damn sure.”

“No, my aunt’s will was very clear, but if he could prove me not of sound mind—” Cas studies his palms. Dean studies Cas studying his palms.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that’s anxiety talking.”

Slowly, Cas nods. “Probably.”

For a second, Dean hesitates, worrying his lip. “Can I show you something? It’s gonna look like I’m putting a move on you, but I promise, I’m not. Not right now, anyway.”

Finally snapping into the present, Cas looks at him sharply. Then nods. Dean stands up and, as deliberately un-provocative as he can, removes his kilt. Cas’s eyes go wide, and he’s staring at Dean in his boxer-briefs as Dean rolls up one of the legs to show off a tattoo high on his right thigh. With Cas still sitting on the futon, it’s right at his eye level, but he still has to tilt his head almost upside down to read it.

“‘Just keep swimming’?” he reads, incredulous. “Is that a Finding Nemo reference?”

“Hey, there ain’t nothing wrong with loving that fish.” Dean sits back down next to him, a little closer than before. Their bare knees press together, cool and a little scratchy with hair. “I did that one myself. After my folks, after Sam—” he swallows. Might go down that road with Cas, one day. He might appreciate the example. But maybe not today. “Me ‘n’ Sam had to do some life-turning-around, too. And if I learned one thing from all that, it’s that you gotta keep moving forward. That’s the only direction that matters. Everything you’ve been through, sure, it’s part of you. You wouldn’t be who you are without it. But it doesn’t define you. You just gotta keep swimming. Okay?”

Cas nods, slow and still kinda disbelieving.

“What’s the first thing you did after you got your aunt’s money?” Dean asks.

“I ran,” Cas says with no inflection.

“Ran where?”

“Rehab.”

“Exactly. You got the help you needed, and that didn’t have anything to do with your uncle or anyone else, right?”

“No. They had no idea.”

“And now look at you.”

“I’m a mess.”

“Dude. If you’re a mess, then so is everybody. It’s okay.”

“I’m in over my head. I’m drowning.”

“You are not. You aced your midterms, right? And you’re almost done with this part. You worried about your residency?”

“... No. But I am worried that I won’t have time for the shop.”

“So, take a step back. Asking for help is not weakness, alright? But not from your money-grubbing uncle, from _ us_.” They’re quiet for a moment; Dean idly picks at a hangnail. “We’re here for you. Donna loves that shop almost as much as you do. And I—” he swallows. In for a penny. “I’m here for you too. Whatever you need.”

Cas looks up, and suddenly it seems like they’re sitting very, very close.

“You don’t want to get involved with me,” Cas says.

Dean laughs around his heart in his throat. “Uh. Hate to break it to you, buddy, but—yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re amazing? Everything I just said? I dunno. Why does anyone want to be with anybody?”

Cas gives a noncommittal eyebrow twitch and a slow nod. Dean has succeeded only in making his hangnail worse, and forces himself to stop before he makes it bleed.

“Do, uh. Do you not—look, I get it, if you don’t wanna—”

“I do want to be with you, Dean,” Cas says in a rush. “I was very much looking forward to going back to your place after the festival.” 

Relief adds a tingle to the heat that races over Dean’s skin. “Yeah, me too,” he admits, throat suddenly dry. “So the only thing that changed was that your uncle showed up and reminded you of all this other stuff?”

Cas nods.

“We’ll deal with him. I’ll come with you, if you want.”

“I can fight my own battles, Dean.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious. But you don’t have to do it alone if you don’t want to.”

Cas looks at Dean for a long moment, then drops his body sideways to fall heavily into his shoulder. Dean opens his arms to him, leaning back against the futon with Cas against his chest, nose in his overgrown tangle of hair. “Thank you,” Cas murmurs.

“Any time,” Dean says, low and warm and right against Cas’s skull. “S’what I’m here for.”

They lay like that for a long time, Cas’s warm weight in Dean’s arms. The refrigerator cycles on and off, a loud buzz in the quiet. A dog barks in the yard behind them. Dean gets a crick in his shoulder; when he shifts into a better position, Cas almost sits up entirely, but Dean just tightens his arm and brings him back down.

When Dean speaks again, the silence folds around the words like an envelope. “Don’t you have a cat?”

Cas’s chest shakes against him. “I haven’t had a cat of my own since Suzie.”

Dean cranes his neck to try and get a glimpse of Cas’s face. All he gets is an outline of nose and eyebrow. “For real?”

Cas shakes his head. “It hurts too much to get attached.”

Dean mulls that over for a bit. “Is that why TimTam came to live with me?”

Cas nods against his collarbone. There’s a lot that Dean could say to that, but for now, he keeps his mouth shut.

They spend the morning like that, Cas held safe in Dean’s arms while the sun through the window tracks slowly down the wall. They shift again, ending up lying down with Cas between Dean’s spread knees. Dean’s pretty sure Cas dozes off at some point, if the quiet snuffles of his snores are anything to go by. He’d lay odds on Cas not getting a lot of sleep the night before, so Dean just watches the sun and listens to the ambient sounds of apartment life.

When Cas does wake up, it’s with a sudden inhale and stiffening shoulders. He lifts his head a fraction, then discretely wipes at his mouth with his wrist.

“Did you drool on my shirt?” Dean asks, amused affection canceling out any gross-factor.

“Um.” Cas has the good grace to look guilty. “My apologies.”

Dean just laughs. “Dork,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid of your saliva.”

“Under the circumstances, I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Dean wants to laugh again, can feel his belly quivering with it, but there’s something about the heaviness of Cas’s gaze that short-circuits his brain. He’s studying Dean at close range, the aquamarine of his eyes bright and intense. Dean suddenly wonders what his stubble feels like. 

He could probably find out.

One hand lifts itself from Cas’s shoulders, of its own volition, and Dean strokes the backs of his knuckles down Cas’s cheek. It’s satisfyingly sharp and bristly, and Dean wants to feel it in all kinds of places.

Cas’s eyes fall shut and his lips open.

“You wanna, um—”

That’s as far as Dean gets before Cas is kissing him.

Just a press of lips at first, smelling of stale breath, but Dean’s fingers clench tight on Cas’s shoulders anyway, pulling him tight and opening up. The wet slide of their lips and tongues together brings a singing awareness to every point where their bodies touch. It’s a lot. With Cas between Dean’s thighs and both of them already down to T-shirt and boxers, it doesn’t take more than a moment before Dean feels a heady rush of blood to his dick.

He breaks the kiss, biting his lip. “Sorry,” he mutters, but can’t stop the subtle straining of his hips into Cas’s weight.

Cas, his eyes darkening to indigo, tilts his head at him. “Why are you sorry?”

Dean shrugs against the futon. “I dunno.”

Cas squints down at him. Then shifts his weight so that he’s hovering a little more eye to eye with Dean. And rolls his hips.

Dean bites off a curse. There, right there against his burgeoning erection, is the swell of Cas’s cock in his goofy, all-white boxers. Seems Dean’s not in this boat by himself.

“Shit,” Dean murmurs, and then they have hands in each other’s hair, sharing breath between open-mouthed kisses, bodies hot and firm against each other. Cas gets his knees under himself, which pushes Dean’s thighs up in a very suggestive position that makes his heart race and goosebumps tingle over his skin.

“Dean,” Cas groans against his throat, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand slides up under Dean’s T-shirt.

This is crazy, Dean thinks. They’ve only just—and now—

But Cas’s hands are on his skin, and Dean can barely see straight, much less think about slowing this train down.

“Help me outta this thing,” Dean grumbles, trying to sit up and pull his shirt off and only managing a few inches at a time. Maybe he should start doing crunches again.

Cas sits up, allowing Dean to struggle out of his shirt a little more easily, and by the time he’s free of the cotton—“Thanks for the assist, man”—Cas has also removed his shirt, and Dean’s tongue stutters against his teeth at the miles of bare skin and wiry chest in front of him. “Dude—”

Then Cas is on him again, kissing him, and Dean makes it his mission to wrap himself around as much of Cas as he can. His skin is warm and powder-soft, and Dean can smell that Cas hasn’t showered, but it’s fine, it’s _ fine_, it triggers something primal and hungry in the back of Dean’s brain. He wants Cas all over him, everywhere.

“You’re so—” Cas speaks between their kisses. “Fucking beautiful, Dean.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Cas doesn’t reply, too busy rubbing his hands and lips all over every one of Dean’s tattoos he can see. The Led Zeppelin sleeve, the exploded Impala’s engine on his ribs and flank, even his rebel insignia and his family crest, and the tenderness of that forearm kiss makes Dean’s heart lurch in his chest. Who knew?

Then he’s scooting down the futon, and Dean’s whole body thrums like a cello string at the sight of Cas settling between his legs.

He doesn’t go for the obvious prize, though, the obscene arch of Dean’s dick still trapped in spandex. No, Cas just rolls up the thigh of his right boxer leg and presses a kiss to the words of Dean’s personal mantra.

Dean’s head thumps back on the futon. “Wait ‘til you see my ass tat,” he says, voice quavering. Cas is still kissing his thigh, open-mouthed and hot. God, that’s gonna drive him nuts real quick.

“Are you saying I should kiss your ass?” Cas asks, little puffs of breath cool where he’s left damp patches on Dean’s leg. Dean laughs a little, then squirms until he can halfway roll over. Cas helps, grabbing him by the hips and moving him, and fuck if that isn’t—

Dean tugs down his boxers far enough to expose his most embarrassing tattoo.

Cas stares for a solid five seconds before asking, “Are those cowboy boots?”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a grin. “Knockin’ boots, am I right?”

And then, Cas does the most beautiful thing: He throws his head back in a deep belly laugh. Dean grins, and is about to flop back on his back when Cas bows forward and presses that laughter into his skin, kissing the stupid boots while still giggling, eyes sparkling like sapphires, his scruff delightfully abrasive Dean’s ass cheek.

“How drunk were you when you got this?” Cas asks.

“I plead the fifth.”

Cas chuckles again, kissing up over Dean’s hip and side. “There’s a joke in there about fifths of liquor, but I find myself too distracted to make it.” His fingers curl under the waistband of Dean’s boxers, suggestive.

“Fine by me,” Dean says, and lifts his hips as best he can to let Cas drag them down his legs.

Once Cas is back between Dean’s legs, his laughter evaporates like mist in the sun. Dean tries not to squirm at the intense scrutiny of his gaze; his dick throbs and pulses out a little dew of precome, and he aches for touch.

Cas licks his lips, catching Dean’s eye. The heat there is scorching. Without looking away, Cas wiggles out of his own boxers, his cock slapping his belly once it’s free of the elastic.

Dean licks his lips, his jaw falling open.

He wants that in his _ mouth _.

But Cas has other plans, apparently. He lays himself back over Dean, giving him a kiss that aches with sweetness as their cocks line up between their hips. All the breath leaves Dean’s body, and he grabs at Cas’s ass with both hands, pulling them flush and pulsing his hips against him, stirring the heat in his blood.

Soon, they’re breathing too hard to really keep kissing, but Cas tries anyway, even as he maneuvers his left hand between their bodies to grip both their cocks. The slide of Cas’s foreskin and the slick of them both leaking together is plenty to smooth the way, and Dean is consumed. His heart hammers pleasure against his every nerve, and he can’t control the push and pull of his hips into Cas’s grip.

“Cas, fuck—” he groans, “I’m close—”

Cas whines right in his ear and humps down on him. The jerking rhythm of his hand, the press of their cocks together, that perfect drag of friction, launches Dean right off the edge of the cliff. “Oh, _ Jesus _ fuck—” Dean bites out as he comes in hard, trembling pulses between their bellies.

Before he’s even had a chance to get his breath back, Dean is pawing at Cas, his arms, his ass, anywhere. “Cas, get up here,” he pants.

Cas looks wild-eyed when he pulls out of Dean’s neck, sitting up and following Dean’s vague directions until he’s straddling Dean’s face. “I’ll tap you if you go too deep,” Dean says, waiting for Cas’s nod of comprehension before opening his mouth to receive the tip of Cas’s cock. Cas shouts like he’s going to be murdered before falling forward on his arms and pushing into Dean’s throat.

It barely takes more than a few quick ruts, a flick of Dean’s tongue, and a long, hard swallow before Cas is breaking apart above him, spilling down his throat. Dean opens wide, letting himself be filled, catching everything Cas is willing to give him.

In the aftermath, Cas slides slowly off to the side, just barely avoiding kneeing Dean in the nose. Dean doesn’t have the strength or willpower to sit up, yet, but he does crane his neck to look up at Cas.

And then bursts into giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Cas asks. He’d probably be glaring if he hadn’t just come his brains out.

“You wound up in the laundry pile.”

Cas flips him the bird from his position folded over the assorted non-whites. “It’s clean,” he says, not bothering to move. “I think.”

Dean stretches, his arms meeting Cas’s bare skin, mindful of the mess on his stomach. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I’m not. You got a shower in this place?”

“Something like it,” Cas says, still somewhat muffled by the laundry. “It’s very small.”

“Good thing I like you up close,” Dean says, and stumbles to his feet. After a momentary battle with vertigo, he holds out a hand to help Cas up out of his heap. “Lead the way.”

Cas doesn’t, not at first. He just stands there, not letting go of Dean’s hand, staring like he can’t fathom how Dean got there. He stares for long enough—first at their hands, then up at Dean, searchingly—that Dean starts to feel a little nervy. “What? I got something on my face?”

Then Cas moves in, tugging on his hand, the other coming up to wrap around the back of Dean’s neck and pull him down into a soft, soulful press of lips. The kind that doesn’t entice, doesn’t tease, doesn’t need to go anywhere. Just a connection, pure and human.

“Thank you,” Cas breathes into their kiss, not quite broken.

Dean knocks their brows together and doesn’t even try to contain his grin. “C’mon,” he says. “I’m getting sticky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](https://jemariel.tumblr.com/) or come hang out on the [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond)! 
> 
> Thanks for reading ^__^ hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to feed your friendly local author with a kudos or a comment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, here it is, folks. Thanks for sticking with me. It's been tough to get my creativity flowing lately, but here we have it.
> 
> Endless thanks to [Elanor](https://elanor-n-evermind.tumblr.com/) for sticking with me on this through all the trials and tribulations.
> 
> And also tons of love to [Cryptomoon](https://cryptomoon.tumblr.com/) for the prompt, and for running the best, happiest fandom niche I've ever found, the [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond). (Come on down, everyone's lovely.)

Castiel arrives at the shop in the chilly blue of morning, before the sun has even thought about breaking the horizon. The cool dew clings to his temples, and he can hear a robin sounding off a chirruping song as he unlocks the shop door.

Inside, everything is quiet and still. He can hear the humming of the refrigerator, but that’s all that thickens the air. The cozy shop is cast in shades of blue and shadow from the not-yet-dawn outside.

Stepping lightly, Castiel grazes fingertips over the back of the chair where he sat one rainy evening, sharing easy companionship with Dean. The memory pulls a smile from somewhere under his heart. He breathes it in, letting the sweetness linger, before moving on to the dominant structure of the catropolis. This is the first time since he opened this place that there has not been at least one cat snoozing in a cubby, or watching patiently from the uppermost tier, or batting at a swinging ball or one another’s tail. 

He turns to the counter, to the darkened pastry case. It’s empty at the moment, like Snow White’s glass casket. The chalk menu board overhead is full of puns and written in a half-dozen different hands as his crew have added their ideas to the mix. Donna’s rounded capital printing is the most prominent, though Claire’s looping script declares that the “Soup du Purr” is “Meownestroni.” Kevin’s small, scratchy hand is rarer but offers such clever concoctions as the “Calicoconut Cream,” a cold-brew-based beverage so sweet it makes Castiel’s eyes cross. Krissy has provided some of their more off-the-wall ideas, such as the Tongue Bath Mocha, which was served with mini marshmallows in the bottom of the mug. Cas has watched her try to convince several patrons that they would get a free drink if they licked out the remnant marshmallow after they’d finished drinking it. So far, no one had taken her up on that offer.

Castiel’s heart lurches, and even through the prickle of tears in his eyes, he’s grinning so hard his jaw aches.

This is his family, he realizes. He’s built something here. Built it with his own two hands and a lot of help from the people he loves. People who might even care for him back. This may have started as Anna’s dream, but he’s the one who made it reality, and he loves it here.

So help him, he loves it here.

As the gold of sunrise streaks across the sky, brimming over the eaves and sparkling at the tops of the Toe Bean’s windows, Castiel is filled with a tingling sensation of _ pride. _He’s proud of what he’s built. He’s proud of himself.

With a quiet laugh, he scrubs away the tears from his cheeks, then rallies himself with a deep breath and heads back to the kitchen to unwrap today’s pastries and pies. The day isn’t going to start itself.

He’s just about to let the cats out of their kennels when the wind chimes ring out over the door.

“Ah, Castiel,” says an oily voice. It grates like claws down Castiel’s nerves, but he wears his pride like armor. Marv can’t hurt him. Castiel stands up tall in front of the counter.

“Nice to see you up and about at this hour,” Marv is saying, ambling through the shop with an air of unearned authority. “Unless this is the other side of the night for you, in which case, well...”

Castiel’s teeth set on edge, but he stands firm. “I’ve considered your offer,” he says. “I’ve made a decision.”

Marv smirks, clearly still thinking he has the upper hand. “Glad to hear it. Although, I must say, it was hardly an offer.” He holds up a thick envelope. “I’ve brought the papers for you to sign. And don’t worry,” Marv says, holding up both hands in conciliation. “I’m willing to consider keeping you on as staff, so long as you can prove to me that you are keeping your nose clean. Remember, I only want what’s best for you.”

Castiel nearly laughs in his self-satisfied face, but he’s actually too baffled to laugh. How could he have ever been cowed by this man? This insignificant leech? What a difference a day can make.

He steps forward and holds out his hand. “Let me see them,” he says.

Marv hands over the envelope, shark-toothed grin still firmly in place. Castiel pulls out the sheaf of papers, weighs it in his hands. Pretends to read, but barely makes a cursory skim of the first page before he can’t stand it anymore.

He looks up and holds his uncle’s gaze as he tears the contract straight down the middle. For good measure, he rips both the halves apart, too.

Marv’s brow crinkles; the rising sun leaves his frown in shadow.

“I’ve decided I don’t owe you a damn thing,” Castiel says, voice a study in quiet power. “You will remove yourself from my premises, or I will remove you myself. And”—Marv starts to open his mouth, but Cas doesn’t let him speak—”if you dare to darken my doorstep again, I will place a restraining order on you so fast, you will end up in Mesopotamia.”

Marv glares at him, mouth twisting like the cream has just curdled on his tongue. “That was a very stupid decision, Castiel,” he says. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No, I’m not,” Cas says. “Get out of my establishment.”

“I’m here to help—”

Castiel grabs Marv’s coat by the shoulder and not-so-gently shoves him out the exit, cutting off his fuming protests with a closed door in his face and a decisive _ click _ of the lock. His final promises that Castiel would live to regret this are muffled and indistinct through the glass. Cas pays them no mind.

Instead, he allows himself a satisfied smile in the golden, sun-washed cafe, then gets back to work.

A couple of hours later, the cats are out of their kennels, fed, and watered. The pastry case is full, the drip coffee is set to brew just a few minutes before they open, and the sparkling new hopper is full of dark, oily espresso beans. Castiel is humming a song he probably heard at Dean’s house as he vacuums under the cushions of the armchairs. Mango bathes himself on the windowsill while Simon and LaRue observe the situation from one of the cubbies. 

“This is your fault,” Castiel admonishes Mango when the vacuum cleaner hose clogs for the second time. Mango gives him a cool look before loafing himself on the cushion. Cas is still glaring at the little orange traitor when a figure walks in front of the window, briefly bright in the still-golden glow.

It’s Dean. Castiel’s heart balloons inside him, even moreso when he catches Dean’s glance through the glass. Dean’s smile is wide, almost blinding; his little wave is sweetly shy.

Cas can hardly get to the door fast enough to let him in.

“Hey,” Dean says. He doesn’t look like he knows where to put his hands. Castiel rescues him by stepping close and pressing into a kiss. Dean hums against his lips, soft and surprised. Cas wishes he could freeze this moment in time, could immortalize it in amber or crystal and live here forever.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean says when they part, pleased and a little surprised, palms and fingers pressing into Cas’s waist.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says.

“It’s good to see you here,” Dean says, or seems to. Cas can’t be sure; he’s too busy memorizing the way the angle of the light changes his eyes from peridot green to golden bronze. “You seen Marv yet?”

Cas nods. “He came by with the contract,” he says. “I ripped it up and ejected him from my establishment.”

Dean’s laughter is as bright and effervescent as champagne. “God, I wish I’d been here to see that. And good. There’s no way I’d want him as a neighbor.”

He’s warm. So warm, Castiel can barely keep his hands to himself. He palms Dean’s firm bicep through his T-shirt, the one that he knows has the Rebel insignia on it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The gold melts in Dean’s eyes, and he leans in for another smiling kiss. “Good.”

~~

Star Wars night has nearly outgrown Dean’s apartment. Once the Toe Bean gang had caught on that this was a thing, it was only a matter of time before Dean was shopping around for folding chairs to supplement his couch for seating. Charlie still says she prefers the floor, though, and Krissy and Claire have joined her there, a little trio of snark and wild hair. Kevin and Sam just grab Dean’s two dining room chairs, a pair of satellites that orbit to and from the kitchen, nerding out together in the background. Meanwhile, Jody, Donna, Cas, and Dean claim the sofa, and earn themselves a rightful ribbing all around for their “couples’ privilege.”

“Just don’t get too gross up there,” Krissy calls from where she lounges on the carpet. “I don’t wanna know what y’all get up to on that couch when we’re not here.”

Dean’s busy spooning guacamole, sour cream, and salsa onto a pile of nachos, but as soon as he starts bringing the huge plate into the living room, Cas is there to grab the beers precariously dangling from his other hand. “Thanks, babe,” Dean smiles, getting both hands on the nachos.

Cas gives him one of his barely there smiles, leaning in for a quick kiss.

It’s possible the “quick kiss” lingers a little longer than necessary.

“Eeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwww, it’s like watching my parents make out,” Claire complains, wrinkling up her nose.

“Try actually being related to one of them,” Sam says, then mimes vomiting between good-natured grins.

“Alright, alright, knock it off,” Dean scoffs, picking his way between the forest of feet around the coffee table. “Do you guys want these nachos or not?”

No one bothers answering, choosing instead to descend upon the plate like hungry piranhas.

Dean’s got his finger on the remote to start up the next episode of the Mandallorian when Charlie stands up from the feeding frenzy, licking guacamole from the corner of her mouth and raising her bottle of beer. “Before we start!” she says, “I have something to say!”

The room quiets a little. Charlie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks straight at Dean, her smile turning soft and sentimental.

Oh, crap.

“Dean,” she begins. “I’ve known you a long time, and—”

“Is this gonna be a chick flick moment?” Dean asks. Cas pinches his thigh, and not gently. “Ow.”

“I’ve known you a long time,” Charlie starts again with more emphasis. “And through everything, I have never seen you as over the moon as you’ve been these last few weeks. Like, ever. Not when we graduated, not when we were opening the shop—not even that time when you thought you saw Bon Jovi in a Wal-mart.”

“Hey, Bon Jovi rocks,” Dean starts to protest.

“And so, in light of your newly sunny demeanor, I just wanted to raise a toast—” she lifts up her beverage, and the assembled crew does likewise. “To my best friend! May he and his boyfriend give us cavities for many years to come!” Dean slouches a little lower into the couch, his face on fire, but Cas just leans a little harder into him for a second.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Cas says under his breath. Dean is about to respond when— 

“And to Cas,” Charlie continues after everyone has had a sip. Cas’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wide, and Dean bites down on his smirk. “I haven’t known you as long, but it has been truly awesome getting to know you, and I would like to officially welcome you to the family.”

There’s a short round of applause and whoops from the assembled guests, and Cas looks like he’s trying to turtle into his T-shirt, but Dean spies a pleased little smile on his face. Dean leans in and plants a kiss on one pinked-up cheek.

Donna pipes up over the din, saying “Hey, how come we didn’t get speeches?” and gesturing to herself and Jody.

“Because you didn’t take six months to get your shit together,” Sam calls from the back row.

A round of ‘here here!’ goes up, and everyone takes another sip.

“Can we start the show now?” Dean asks.

“By all means,” Charlie says with a little wink and a fond expression. She knows him too well. 

“Kevin, wanna get the lights?” 

As soon as the room goes dim and the episode recap begins, Dean attempts to sink into the couch and immerse himself in the story, but the credits haven’t even rolled by before he feels a hovering presence behind him.

“Hey.” Sam murmurs, and Dean cranes his neck. “She’s right. I’m glad you guys got it together.” His eyes gone all dewy and soft and dammit, Dean can’t take much more of this. He’s going to burst a capillary in his face.

“Buzz off, Sammy,” Dean grumbles, turning back to the show and gulping on his beer.

“He means ‘thank you,’” Cas says, squeezing the hand that is convulsively gripping his shoulder.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Dean says.

“Shhhh,” comes a chorus of hisses like a garden of snakes from the floor. “It’s starting,” Krissy adds.

Dean settles back in the cushion of the sofa, tuning in and out of the show as Charlie’s words turn over and over in his brain. She is right, even if he could have done without the PSA. Still, it’s sweet, the way his little adopted family keeps glancing over at him and Cas with warm affection on their faces.

At a slow point in the episode, Cas turns away from the show, his face lined in TV glow. “Are you alright?” he asks.

They’re almost nose to nose, and Dean lets himself look at his plush lips for a moment before leaning the couple of inches required to cross the bridge and kiss him gently. “Yeah,” he says. “No lingering damage.”

Castiel nods. “Good,” he says, and snuggles down further until his head is tucked onto Dean’s shoulder. He’ll probably be asleep before this episode is over. The thought makes a heat of affection bloom through Dean’s chest, burning at the edges.

If Dean could have picked a heaven, he’s not sure he could have done better than this.

~~

“Great party,” Sam is the last to leave, helping them pick up the bottles and the dregs of the chips and cheese. 

“Not exactly a party,” Dean scoffs. “Just Star Wars.”

Cas is in the kitchen washing a pan, and Sam lowers his voice. “I really am happy for you guys,” he says. “I’m your brother, I’m legally obligated to give you crap, but Cas really seems to be good for you. And vice versa. So. I’m glad you figured out whatever was keeping your heads up your asses.”

Dean wants to make that into a lewd joke, but there’s a sincerity in Sam’s puppy-dog eyes that keeps his tongue in his mouth. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m happy, too.’

All these years, and it still warms his heart to see his brother grin like that. “That’s what counts.”

They stand there awkwardly for a few seconds, and if he lets it go on much longer, Sam’s going to go in for a hug, so Dean shoves past him into the kitchen. “See you tomorrow, bitch,” he grumbles on the way through.

Sam laughs. “Okay. Jerk.”

Dean hides his smile in scraping the plates into the garbage.

Once Sam is gone, it’s just Cas and Dean alone in the sudden quiet.

“So,” Dean says, stepping close.

“So,” Cas responds, letting him.

“Cat’s out of the bag now,” Dean says, letting Cas’s body fill the space between his hands, breathing him in.

“There was no keeping it in the bag, surely you knew that.”

“I’m pretty sure they had a betting pool going on.”

Castiel nods. “As far as I’m aware, Jody won one-hundred-and-fifty dollars altogether.”

“Seriously? Only a hundred fifty?” He’d be more affronted, but Cas’s hands are sliding around his waist, dropping down to finger the pleats of his kilt, rubbing the rough canvas over his bare thighs. It had been a risk, being traditional about his kilt-wearing in a group like this, but as the tingles flood over his skin and pool in his groin, Dean has a feeling it’s about to be very worth it.

“I think it’s a reasonable sum,” Cas says, not sounding nearly distracted enough for Dean’s tastes. 

“I’ll show you a reasonable sum,” Dean growls, swooping in to plant a sound kiss on Castiel’s lips.

Cas rocks back a little in surprise, catching himself on the kitchen counter before pulling back to say, “That doesn’t even make sense—” which is abruptly cut off when Dean grabs his hand and pushes it down, then up, under his kilt. 

He can see the moment when Cas registers the bare skin under his hands. His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth drops open. “Oh,” he breathes.

“Yeah?”

“Very reasonable,” Cas says, and that’s the last thing either of them says for a while.

Somehow, they make it from the kitchen to the couch, even with both of Cas’s hands occupied with Dean’s bare ass, hips, thighs, and groin. Dean pushes Cas down on the cushions and straddles his thighs. They lose their shirts in short order between hot, grinning kisses, and Cas’s broad hands all over Dean’s skin are intoxicating. The cool nighttime breeze from the open window contrasts with Cas’s hot touch, and together they send goosebumps racing all over Dean’s skin, little hairs standing up on his arms.

“Mmmf,” Cas groans against his neck. “We should have taken my pants off when we had the chance.”

“S’not too late,” Dean slurs, flushing hot, cock straining up against the rough weight of his kilt. He tries to stand, but Cas’s arms tighten, one around his waist and the other on his ass cheek. “You gotta let me up real quick, though,” Dean says around a laugh.

With a grudging grumble, Cas lets him go, unzips his jeans and shoves them down his thighs, boxers and all. Dean helps, pulling them over his knees and down off his feet, and that beautiful cock stands up between them. Dean’s debating the merits of getting back in his lap versus dropping to his knees in front of him, but then— 

A high-pitched, trilling meow interrupts his one-track thoughts; TimTam jumps up on the cushion and stalks right up to Cas, inspecting his nakedness.

Dean sputters into laughter, doubling over while Cas just stares at the cat, nonplussed. “Excuse me,” Cas says, poking at the cat ineffectually. TimTam just rubs his cheek against Cas’s finger and starts to purr.

“Go away, Tims.” Dean scoops up the cat under the belly, to which he gives a protesting squeak, then drops him on the other side of the coffee table. “Now, where were we?”

As Dean settles in Cas’s newly naked lap, the heady sensation of bare skin on the insides of Dean’s thighs, Castiel asks, “Did you just call him Tims?”

“Hey, you know what—” Dean glares and rocks forward to grind their cocks together under the blanket of his kilt. Cas gasps, eyes slamming shut and hands flying to Dean’s ass.

“Point taken,” he says, and cranes his neck up for a deep, dirty kiss.

There are hands everywhere for a few long, melting moments, pleasure stirring between them in the cauldron of their hips, cocks pressed together in a hot, sticky morass. Dean controls the pace, starting slow and syrupy, easing up to a boil until Cas’s mouth breaks away from their kiss to thump his head back against the couch. “Dean—”

“Fuck yeah, Cas,” Dean grunts against his neck.

“I’m going to make a mess of your kilt soon,” Cas warns. His body strains up into Dean’s, taut like a bowstring, arrow ready to fly.

“Gotta do laundry anyway.”

Cas whines, high and desperate and needy, and Dean pulls his head up to watch even has he picks up the pace of his thrusts—

Big mistake.

Dean bursts into giggles, hips stuttering to a halt at the sight of TimTam in full loaf position about three inches from Cas’s left ear.

Cas’s eyes fly open, a mutinous look on his flushed face, but then he notices the cat. When he turns that expression of utter betrayal on TimTam, the cat leans in to sniff at Cas’s nose and even give a single raspy lick before Cas squirms out of reach.

“Do you have no concept of personal space, cat?” Dean asks. TimTam does not respond.

Cas glares, horny frustration evident in his pout. “Bedroom?” 

“Race you,” Dean taunts, leaping off Cas’s lap and darting down the hall. His kilt goes flying, and as he hears Cas hot on his heels, he hopes one of them remembers to close the door.

Some time later, as they lay on top of the screwed-up blankets with sweat and come cooling on their skin, heartbeats ticking down and pleasure still zinging through their blood, their bliss is broken by a soft scratch, a plaintive meowl. 

Dean groans. “You let him in,” he says. “I’m a puddle.”

“And whose fault is that?” Cas asks, not moving.

“Yours,” Dean fires back. 

Castiel laughs into Dean’s skin, pressing a kiss between his pecs and crawling off the bed on unsteady legs. TimTam noses into the room the second the door is cracked, like a firefighter dashing up a burning flight of stairs.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” Dean asks. “What’s your glitch?” 

TimTam meows at Dean with the air of the deeply wronged.

“I know, how dare I close a door in my own house,” Dean mutters. TimTam hops up onto the bed, and Dean raises a hand to pet him, not even bothering to cover himself for modesty. Apparently, that’s all TimTam wanted because he starts purring at once and curls up close to Dean’s side.

Castiel settles down on the other side, watching the two with fondness. “You know,” he starts to say, slow and hesitant. “I never intended him to stay with you this long.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean murmurs, not slowing his petting. “Jeeze, look at all this fuzz. I’m gonna need more eye drops.”

“We could—” Cas stops, starts again. “We could try re-introducing him at the shop.”

Dean’s arm tightens on the cat in the crook of his elbow, a reflexive, possessive twitch. “I mean,” he starts. “I guess, if you want to. D’you think Mango would have calmed down by now?”

Castiel watches the two of them, measuring the distress in Dean’s eyes, the contentedness in TimTam’s face.

“Hmm,” he hums. “You know, I’m not sure he would have, actually.”

“You think not?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. I think it’s best if he stays with you for a while longer. Indefinitely, perhaps.”

Dean's grin is a thing of beauty, lighting up the whole room. “Guess I may as well pay my pet deposit,” he says. “Y’hear that, buddy? I’m keeping you.” TimTam purrs in response and thumps his head down against Dean's bare side. 

As Castiel tucks himself under Dean’s other arm, he finds himself thinking much the same.

~~

“You ready for this?”

Castiel settles into the leather of the chair in Dean’s shining-clean monochrome shop. Charlie’s standing by with her phone on camera mode and a big grin on her face; Sam is trying to pretend he’s not hovering close by to watch. Dean is wearing blue nitrile gloves and an eager smile.

The underside of Castiel’s left wrist bears a looping, seamless design in the purple ink of the temporary stencil. Earlier, he’d snapped a picture on his phone, the last time anyone would ever see this arm unmarked.

“I’m ready,” he says, flexing his fist.

Dean’s fingers cover his, warm through the glove, curling his hand open. “Relax,” he says, tenderness in his voice and sparkling in his eyes.

The gun buzzes in Dean’s hand as he starts it up. Castiel waits for the spike of fear, the wariness of pain, but it doesn’t come. He trusts Dean. He’s safe in his hands. Whatever happens, with Dean, he can handle it.

The first touch of the tattoo needle—it does sting, and Castiel feels his spine snap straight. It’s more startling than anything else, though. Dean glances up before focusing on his work. “Okay?” he asks.

“It’s okay,” Cas assures him. And it is. The gun oh-so-carefully traces the lines they’ve made together and the pain follows like a little trail of fire, but in its wake, there’s only a rising warmth.

They designed this together, this small emblem of Castiel’s journey. In whispers over their pillows, with Dean’s fingers tracing invisible patterns over the thin skin while Castiel whispered the story Dean already knew. His treasured companion, his family, lost to him now, but a part of him forever. He’d wanted to honor them in every way he could.

He’d wanted to put his pain into a piece of art he could be proud of. It’s small, but it carries so much meaning, especially given the artist.

It doesn’t take very long at all, for how momentous it feels. Before Cas even has time for the pain to really sink in, Dean is dabbing at the stray ink and a few drops of blood. “All set,” he says, beaming at Castiel with a completely unwarranted pride.

“That’s it?” Castiel asks, peering at his newly marked arm. He wants to touch it, to trace the cat’s ears, her back, the curl of her tail cradling the initials of the two people who had meant the most to him in the world until very recently. But the fresh ink is sore and throbbing under his skin, so he refrains.

He’ll have time, he thinks. This is forever.

“That’s it,” Dean says. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Castiel smiles, shakes his head. “I don’t know what I was so afraid of.”

Dean strips off his gloves and leans in to press a kiss against Cas’s temple. “Just wait. You’ll want another one in like five minutes. Now let Charlie take your picture.”

Cas cranes his neck to watch Dean clean up his workstation. Charlie snaps pictures of his new adornment before Dean presses the sterile bandage in place. His touch is warm all the way through. 

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Please feed your friendly neighborhood author with a kudos or a comment :9
> 
> Look for updates on Thursdays. Check out my [Tumblr](https://jemariel.tumblr.com/post/188857086506/jemariel-jemariel-cats-tats-destiel) to keep up with my stuff. And hey! If you want to come hang out on the [Profound Bond discord server,](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) we'd love to have you. (Click link to join.)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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